Maps:
A symbolic depiction
of things in a space
and what is between.
Most maps are fixed to cloth.
The earliest of the heavens,
and then the world,
and then the roads.
A map hangs above my bed.
It is fixed with duct tape
to the popcorn ceiling.
Distorted, its countries misused.
I stare at the canyon, its wiggly lines
while you finish carelessly.
I want to live inside this map.
Mappa mundi, cloth of the world.
I want to draw my relation to you
inside a climactic map.
Using isolines to measure humidity—
the space between our hot and cold.
I want to capsize each street map,
your hands like four wheel drive tires.
Your grip: rubber on depictions of road.
My skin: slick and resists.
Maps: a cartography of bodies
of water, flesh and defiance.
A symbolic depiction of things in a space
and what is between.