Safe Passage

The maps
never warned us
about the terrains
of the heart.

Poetry pretending
to be the sea
was never enough
to carry me through.

You speak like
something with too
many mouths.

We called it survival
because we were afraid
to call it suffering.

The wind kept asking
us to remember
its signature,

when roots tightened
around our throats,
and water closed
around our lungs.