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You turn away and lie with your back to me—
stippled skin stretched over the Frames
of spine and ribs. I read the map of you,
a blind traveler tracing the topography—
plains, knolls, Vales of your body—
a universe scrolled out on supple flesh.
I know your body like the road back home
where the way seems sometimes dappled
with shade from tall elms gone
since my childhood, lost to my vision.
Yet my stumbling feet remember danger
from roots half-buried, like that phantom limb
of my uncle who cried out and grasped
the pulsing emptiness beneath his knee,
feeling the pain Of only what was missing.
The word is not the thing, the map is not
the territory. You are not you. You are not
here. Perhaps you are not at all. But
your fluid spine still flows north
from that lush valley. Three dusk-colored points
of sandy FIesh —- intricate as the pyramids—rise
warm between your shoulder blades: to their
mystery and between I fly and I am counted lost.
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