maps

December twenty-second
was a moth-eaten almanac of highways.
No one could tell interstate vein from artery,
but there was a steady motion,
a rhythm toward something.
That day we were swaying to madness.

Exit 169.
A man unfolds his prayer rug in a rest stop
and postures his soul toward Mecca.
Above him, a daughter begs
a paper Wisconsin for a way home.
(But where was home then?)
Her mother throats, “Why don’t you love me?”

Pleading never gets you anywhere.

I want to log and unfold
and dress up my days like maps,
iron out each to one dimension,
lay it prostrate, smooth its wrinkles
and press my fingers to its pulse.

Draw valleys up
and pull mountains from their roots.
Relocate and rephrase.
Refold and enter.