Even as a girl I knew the heart was not a valentine; it was wet, like a leopard frog on a lily pad, had long tube roots anchoring it in place. And smaller roots like lupine and marigold and bleeding hearts’ roots I traced with my finger while transplanting in the garden. Jesus had a thousand bloody hearts planted in our flowerbeds beneath pink flowers; they could see us through the ground. I had a book about a girl who lived in the earth near the tree roots, who cut off her finger and used it as a key. I wondered if I could love like that. I studied the painting of His chest peeled back to show light around the Sacred Heart. And in the bedroom at my grandmother’s where I slept against the trees, I was the spirit inside the room’s heart, my life inside me, something that could leave through the window quietly. I heard the fibrous closing and closing inside my body and prayed to stay alive.