what would you say if i told you
that i hold a map of the canyon where rust
takes the color of a struck cheek, where your
knuckles might wither into white myth
and splitting skin is no excuse to let go
take this map and tear it in two
one for the way your teeth sit so
comfortably in your skull, one
for all the times your gums bled
in spite of that
this is a map of somewhere else
and i am fascinated by the concept
of somewhere else, a place which exists
only by virtue of not being
here, and i am asking you
to show me where here is
where are its gunmetal mountains
can you dance along its spine
and crush the vertebrae into snow
with the pestle of your feet
but what, then, would we do
with the mortar, and by ‘mortar’
do you mean the hands that
cup dry gin, or the veins
snaking through the bricks, or
the throat choked by bombshells
do you mean that it doesn’t matter
the particular manner in which a
body crumples on the limestone
so long as you can still feel the
valleys in their fingertips
or do you mean to say this map is
not for us but for you, that you
are here and i am somewhere else
and the mountains loom between us