Do we hide our souls in things
to keep them safe till after our hearts leave us?
Do we always know that
that will happen?
Is mine hidden in the dry, powder-white-brown blades of grass
I remember stabbing my feet on in summer?
Or in those cracked hot pavements?
Or the bleached-baking tar roads
gravelling in the light & dark?
Maybe in the hot sand, sinking away as I
pushed up that same dune for the hundredth time,
or in the broken barnacles
stabbing and cutting while I breathed
the salt and water deeply, into
the lung hollows under my heart?
Can we loose our souls through our feet by accident?
Did I hide a part of my soul in that sagging, rusted fence that
I never forgot seeing those huge bugs with the unrealistically long legs
What a strange place to hide a soul.
& what about in those white flowers? The ones with the egg-yellow centres that hung heavily at my sister's front door & I never learned the names of after all those years because you don't have to call things that are close?
(It's funny how I remember most things best
with the souls of my feet
and some things only with the backs of my
Maybe I just left my soul in the air.
Hanging like the prayers of a thousand years hang in the Notre Dame;
like a cloud of pollen dust being blown from the field
into the forest, slowly, still visible with the other lost souls bumping up against
each other there.
Maybe that's where all souls go.
At the end.
I look for my soul more now;
now that my heart has grown stronger & harder.
The softness of it is rarer & more beautiful to me.
From 'Things' in Homeland
Fiction is the lie that tells the truth ... (Neil Gaiman)