Maps

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 —