Cartography

A map of the United States above my bed.
Subway map open on my computer.
In me, a map of ice, where to walk without slipping through.
An experiential map, like all maps.
Map of the grocery store, stars over my favorite foods.
Woman asks me where the pasta is and I tell her to head north, to bring a lantern.
Map of physical pain, like the Tylenol ads on television.
Where it hurts, how much. Glowing red dots as if on radar. The enemy, we think.
Map of the acceptable public bathrooms in Manhattan. (Carried with me always.)
Map of places where everything I own was made.
Map of places where I have kissed, the index on the back just pictures of mouths.
Map of all the air molecules I have ever breathed,
and then one of everyone who has breathed them too.
Map of where rivers used to be before dams were built.
Map of favorite colors by country.
Map of places where it has never snowed.
Map of things in my room you have touched.
Map of everything I have dropped and never missed.
Map of wild animals that have seen me and not immediately run.
Map of restaurants from which I have not taken leftovers. (Few.)
Map of places I have accidentally fallen asleep.
Map of places to which I’ve dreamt I’ve been. (Most speculative, unmappable.)
Map of pianos that have only ever been played by children.
Map of hometowns to which people, more often than not, return.
Map of lost laundromat socks, attached: a series of love letters
written by them to their owners, asking for forgiveness.
Map of places on my wall where I have thrown spaghetti and it has not stuck.
Map of the sun, all the best flares named.
Map of a spread rumor, postmortem.
Map of constellations if I were in charge of creating them:
the Broken-In Boot, the Meatball Sub, Jeff Buckley.
Map of airplane crash sites with only one survivor.
Map of parts of the body one is, statistically, most likely to learn to love.
Map of my body, according to you.

— 2013