Over time, the map’s creases weaken.
The paper’s feeble bonds have been tested
Each time I unfolded it,
Studied the markings along its wingspan,
And collapsed it between your hands.
The creases have worn away whatever
Was printed beneath—
The boundary of a park,
The delicate, tangled grid of streets into freeways,
A river.
The map is disintegrating,
A localized continental drift.
The names of streets aren’t even right
In some areas,
So new is this landscape
Compared to its facsimile.
Yes, Hannah, I see your map. Your poems are word-pictures indeed. Your map still speaks volumes, even as my Garmin speaks just two words: "turn right."
ReplyDeleteWas it Whitman who wrote the poem comparing a spider and a human's soul? This poem has some of that hushed importance about its central image.
ReplyDelete