Paraph

The last curl recurls then crosses itself
into an impromptu x and this is how I knew
myself for a while—I was a flourish dancing

off a well-laid line, the hard-pressed gob
before the ink thinned. And my heart used to be
a washed-out wash basin, a thing with no

identity sans context. It could have been
a receptacle for gathering June strawberries,
a playroom for new kittens, a hat for a square-

headed statue. And for a long while it went
on like this: what beat in me was whatever
anyone thought it might be. Then those maybe-

berries, those pipped red jewels, found their way
into the basin and glistened and I listened
to them ripple like a curtain my rhythm belonged

behind. And I signed it. I attested. This is
my heart, this messy bloody thing. And it belongs
to this sweetness, to this mountain-red rush. And this

is how you will know me, as not just the melody,
but the sugar-sting on your lips, the full
sound of finding, of being found.