December 7, 2009Cartographer
You believe my body a map. It is
an island to which you flock only to lose yourself,
to find solace or right angles to answer
the simple question: how do you get
from where you are, to here—the heart.
You walk the streets blind and don’t know
on which side of my waist the sun
will set, or that the route you charted
will take you nowhere you intended
to go. You’re lost and call me
all hours of the morning for direction. But
roads you travel lead up and out. Traffic lights
say, go. Here is the red line that runs the length
of my body. Because you study maps, you believe
this is the key. It is nothing more
than my heart saying pass through, pass
through. Lover, there is no more land,
no more West. There is no place for you to stay.
from #31 - Summer 2009