My heart is a two-year-old: flushed, screaming, damp with tears and sweat. I stand over it and ask, "What do you want? Are you hurt? Are you hungry?" The only answer is this wordless language, a visceral ache that wrinkles the black water of a mossy pond, ribbons through the feathers of South-bound geese, rustles the shimmering moonlight between poplar leaves. None of that means anything worthwhile. I don't even want an answer, really. But I dreamt that I hugged you, leaning into you, and you were so solid against my chest and my stomach, and my arms were around your neck. I was so relieved to feel your permanence, to finally comfort you the way I know I could. I kissed the back of your neck; your hair was soft and thick. I felt like a missionary kneeling with a lost man, the Holy Spirit hovering over the waters.
