The Tropic of Atlases
for Doctor Wilson, who taught me about deep maps
Give me a cold New England winter,
brutal as a first kiss, alone in a dark
room, slamming fists like mouths
into teeth brittle and flaked like
snow.
Give me a humid Southern summer,
oppressive as her boot on my face,
a tongue unrolled on the sidewalk
lapping at the sweat on the black
tar.
Give me a blistering Midwest spring,
rending the folds of time in half
like dominoes and pixie sticks,
cutting a canyon as tall as a Light
Year.
Give me your fall, your dried fruits.
I keep them with mine, together
in leather, beneath a box
stitched in velvet and crinoline,
unlocked and awaiting
your arrival.
Come inside where it’s warm — will you, my love?
Tonight, together, our cycles outlast
the longest shadows, the deepest mercies.
Our season begins when we say.
Our season begins when we touch.
Touch me now; flood the fields.
Let’s set fire to this fallow earth.
