Dear Jerusalem.
Monet painted eyes.
Honey skin. Honey hair.
Bones like a cross.
Bones like a mother who has labored over something sacred.

When you told me your name,
I could hear the ocean, another girl’s call
to prayer.
It’s the alias of holy places.

I wonder now if that means you left the wailing wall of your lungs behind.
Maybe you only took what you could
run with.

I imagine your bones. Your sunset skin.
Your hiding name.

When I think of you you are always just beyond the rocks.
You are on the shores of your heart,
It was too heavy for your bones to take
with them.
There is no prayer on your salt pillar lips.