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From above, the map reads
like my upturned palms
inviting embrace
or as if one could see my heart
on a paper sleeve;
arterial threads spread outwards,
though maps do not show the clot of roadworks.
Trace a capillary back to my home;
the final destination of a confused Tom Tom
ends here in a cul de sac:
Sed viam finem facio.

From above, an older map reads
like a pseudopodic child’s hand
reaching for a star.
Neat triangles are not the wild deciduous trees of Hodder’s Combe.
It does not show the profusion of primroses
nor capture the laughter of streams skimming stones.
Only squiggles of contour, scribbles of dotted lines
Browns, blues, reds and greens
like some infant scrawling of crayons.
It is hard to trace the little paths back:
In memorias parviae puellae

Where is the heart of a map?
X does not mark the spot
in this two dimensional selective narrative; I
arrive at the edge of this moment’s known world:
Hic sunt dracones.

© Anne Lovejoy, November 2008