We give four letters from our hands:
Whispers through lips, wishes to air,
Or thoughts that promise moments of your presence
To the insides of our skulls.
(Maybe another four letters at the end,
If we are so inclined.)
We give four letters from our heads:
Certainty on a plate.
Everything will be back to the way it was
You’ll get this over with for sure.”
(Maybe this has morphed us all
We give four letters from our hearts:
Then a comma, then a name.
An affirmation of affection,
Because everyone we’ve ever known owns
At least a tiny corner inside.
(Maybe all those corners put together
Is strength enough for you.)
Yet, this is what we realise:
The anticipation of recovery
is only four letters long
The blood flowing through veins
is only four letters light.
(Maybe everybody’s got this
Still — we love, we know, we pray.
There’s nothing else we’ve been taught to say.