IV. To Heart

Let me wash your feet.

Let me press them dry

in the faded cotton folds

of my skirts.

Let me fill my house

with your house—my heart

with yours—my eyes with

what you see.

Let me wake in the night

to the wild guide

your sleep petitions.

Let the bend

of my back

respond to yours,

my hands complete themselves

in yours, my words

prefigure yours

when you’re asked

If you live alone,

whose feet will you wash?