For Marcelo Some maps have blue borders like the blue of your name or the tributary lacing of veins running through your father's hands. & how the last time I saw you, you held me for so long I saw whole lifetimes flooding by me small tentacles reaching for both our faces. I wish maps would be without borders & that we belonged to no one & to everyone at once, what a world that would be. Or not a world maybe we would call it something more intrinsic like forgiving or something simplistic like river or dirt. & if I were to see you tomorrow & everyone you came from had disappeared I would weep with you & drown out any black lines that this earth allowed us to give it— because what is a map but a useless prison? We are all so lost & no naming of blank spaces can save us. & what is a map but the delusion of safety? The line drawn is always in the sand & folds on itself before we're done making it. & that line, there, south of el rio, how it dares to cover up the bodies, as though we would forget who died there & for what? As if we could forget that if you spin a globe & stop it with your finger you'll land it on top of someone living, someone who was not expecting to be crushed by thirst— Copyright © 2017 Yesenia Montilla. Used with permission of the author. |
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