THE MAP GAME

So It Begins

—maps made with stolen

pens. From bags and drawers,

permanence

taken.     Paths ink

             past totems.

          Summer nights

                 stack.

                 Light

             

                lingers

 

past beds. Sun on edge.

                                       We

lose a day—searching for

consolations, suns are star-

               shining

 the insurmountable. We draw

 

the world towards us with lines

fine as kite strings—our paper

              lives flying—

 

Context as Threshold

What I see: Four children down

                 a yellow

slide, jump for sky, dive into

                  green,

yards, swimming in dirt, leap

             through pink

              hula-hoops.

 

What they see, can’t be seen—

story in their bodies, they hunt

gold buried in a giant’s ribcage.

 

Rolling down a house-sized straw,

 into a juicebox. Drunk-up, they

    land on the roof of a mouth,

       lower themselves down

          a damp rope-tongue

              until, beneath

    a heart, they find treasures

 

      Escape, they explain,

      requires an exit—we

    have to be pooped out—

 

show me what you’ve found

I say. They give me a handful

                 of rocks.