Cartography
poem
How will they map our lifelines when we are home? When we are home, no trace of palm remains to trace, body and bone burnt to ashes, to dust, to negative space. The aggrieved will deliver words into that void, from chapel or barstool or stadium, wielding memories like badges stuck on the cloth of themselves to hide the holes where we lived. Peace is tricky. The grief-stricken believe it is us they bid to rest; it is they who wear the shroud, the grief-stained cloth that grows heavier with each passing. The shroud is the map. We strip it away when we are home. When we are home, the map is the territory.