mine

 This heart is mine, before he ever

made it hum like buds on trees

or made it fall like leaves and seeds.

The way it beats

is mine, before I ever thought

it ever could be sold or bought

for being seen or heard. It’s not

less mine because I can’t control

things that don’t stay or things that hold

me like washed ghosts

of watercolor

painted lines – or letters inked

in blood and bone, in ways I think

and ways I fear. My fingers linked

together round

it – mine. Across the harmattans

my faithful heart

is mine.