Between the Lines

A Map to Myself

INSPIRED BY JOY HARJO’s “A Map to the Next World”

If only I had a map, maybe I could finally figure out

where I belong.

My one desire is to emerge from the insanity

of these rooms, these prisons.

For my soul is a hermit, who fears to leave

the sanctity of silence.

My map would be carved on the surface of my skin,

A tattoo leading me to the next town, to the next world. Anywhere but here.

The roads are marked out in maroon heartache and

cerulean melancholy.

I’ll wander and avoid the busy places, the

altars of money, the detours of self-pity.

I’ve lost my way, over and over again,

Lost my faith and my humanity and my compass.

Lost myself, over and over again.

Flowers of depression spring up under skies of solitude. Monsters

Feed on their salty petals.

Wind-whispers brush against my skin and mountains

Of flesh rise up, marring the map.

I’ve lost my name, my way, again. The birds

Laugh with mocking tones.

The promise has been broken

And now I am

Nothing.

What I am telling you is true

Except when it is false. My ambiguity guides me and I leave behind

A trail of fallen feathers, wax, and broken dreams.

My imperfect map will have to do.

My father has already crossed the infinite ocean and my mother, she has

a map of her own.

There is no turning back.

If only I could read, I could find the memories

That I forgot so long ago.

Someday, I will travel to the end of all things,

And I will tell you about it. I will tell you

All of the things.

I have not yet journeyed out myself; the end is

just where I have always been looking

And when I take my last breath before I leave

I will finally realize, there is no X, no magic end, no buried treasure. The only goal

Is to hear my mother’s voice, to feel the rough touch

of the memory of my father.

Fresh sadness breaks with morning dew,

History draws fresh blood from flesh maps, maps

that brown in the sun like clay.

The monsters of the past will always find me; they will

Follow the echoes of my footsteps forever.

I climb through caves of uncertainty,

No patronus to guide and to guard me. I rely only on my own ability to

Destroy myself.

I crawl into a hole of shame. I promised to protect you

but I can’t keep my own promises.

I will never be perfect.

I am a falling star, fading

with memories and mistakes.

I will save myself at the last moment, make myself

Whole again. I will understand that everything is both beginning and end.

I will tear away the bruised skin. I don’t need a map

To find myself.

Sestina for Hearts and Birds

The corner of my heart

Is a graveyard where words

Are buried in tombs of silence.

They are vestiges of memories, never

Clear enough to break

To the surface. But my heart’s memory is clear enough.

I’m happy, now. Happy enough,

Anyway. But my heart

Is warped into angles that break

The wings of birds that--like words--

Slowly die in cages. I’ve never

Minded their moribund silence.

A moment of silence

Is an eloquent eulogy. It is enough

To make me believe I never

Kept an aviary in my heart,

That it was a place where words

Sang every morning before daybreak.

What caused me to break?

Silence

Is the only answer I find. Words

are inadequate, not enough
To explain to my heart

when it will find love: never.

Never

Is a long time. I’d break

Down crying if I thought I’d have the heart

To pick myself up after the tears dried up into silence.

But I know I’m not strong enough,

And words are only words.

My words

Will never

Be enough

To break

The silence

In my heart.

The birds never bury themselves deep enough;

Soft plumes break the surface of the earth-heart,

Tiny cairns without words, sepulchers of silence.