In the Midst of the Harshest Winter
We Continue Touching With Our Burns
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How can I map your body with tenderness,
take away no more than is needed,
when mapping requires a constant
violence against specifics
as desire takes over the mind of the task?

Like when I look at you through the bottom
of my glass: the you I see matches the you
I know, but is twisted, an atom
or two has slid out of alignment and dropped
its true self to carry another self
no less you for having shifted
the weight of what, at first, seems burden.

The surface of what is mapped, so delicate
yet full of lust despite the surface,
withstands whatever is brought upon it
unless the wind clears what already is flat,
divests the terrain of details and tells
the stylus which way to forge along the page,
now thoroughly smudged with mistakes.

As if the creation of a map replaced discovery.
As if the map were its own invasion
into territory always known but not named
into submission. This cartographer’s sin,
if he sins, is loving what he ruins.