Flat maps, globes, small flashing square on the phone screen— surely cartographers master more ways to wrap rivers onto the stained blue-green of anxious oceans. My throat,
clenched and dry after the morning news, throbs. A mountain in the way of swallowing. Swathes of arid desert unmollified despite honeyed tea in my mug. Texas wildfire, coastal flood
explosions across the Middle East that scatter blood to the clouds. Without warning, sunspots threaten radiation. Suppose I inked this on my skin, the war zones and torture, the anger, fear
wrapping my chest and the wings of my shoulders in agony, one pinpoint at a time. Each needle jab pressing blue shellfish and orange squid juices beneath my thin and aging skin.
As design takes shape, form emerging from fog, coastline & extinct volcano & secret valleys, rage & regret & despair cartography of grief. Love’s terrible and costly terrain.
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont among rivers, rocks, and writers. Her poems find comfortable seats in small well-lit places, including The Comstock Review, Indianapolis Review, Gyroscope Review, The Post-Grad Journal, Persimmon Tree, Northwind Treasury, RockPaperPoem, and Leon Literary Review. Explore her collection, Thresholds (Kelsay Books).
Art © David Kessan. All rights reserved. 
