after Darby Bittle

I haven’t made this easy. You may unbutton

my blouse, but you cannot unlace my ribcage.

You cannot have this heart beating beneath,

this tremolo—shivering between my lungs. 

To be honest, (forgive me, I’m out of practice)

I don’t recognize myself: the winding labyrinth

shadowed in my chest neglected and overgrown,

vines choking tangled thickets, rosebuds clipped 

to the thorny knuckle. No one has ever wandered 

in my eyes, wondering at the softness under 

my skin, but I am adrift in myself. Somewhere, 

I took a wrong right turn. No Ariadne can untangle 

the red thread leading me home—home, 

as in nudging tulip bulbs into the dew-damp earth, 

as in balancing on my tiptoes to brush a finger 

across the buttery belly of the clouds, 

as in tumbling down a hill, grass threaded 

into the weave of my sweater and the tapestry 

of my hair. I think I’ve been searching for the exit

all along. It’s brighter outside, November

chill rubbing rouge across my nose, lungs

light under a feathered sky gleaming 

with aquamarine. I’d like to retrace my steps and

lick the stardust from my fingertips. Repeat

it like a prayer: home, home, home (crying

my truth beside the bathroom sink) home,

(saying you’re enough to the kiss-smudged

mirror) home, (holding the shape of my love

on my tongue) home, (this knotted fear

will not ensnare my joy) home, (first, 

I must take my own hands) home. Before

I let you into my heart, I must find it myself. 

I am the body and the person within. Look —

there is light ahead. I take it between my teeth.