Maps

from the roads I take to find you
to the afternoon we spent
on the living room floor: the first
mark I made on the map
of the places that mean
something, that lead
somewhere

and I write them across my arm
one more time, to make them more
real, to make them more,
for the evening I spent
with my face in your shoulder
(making stains, taking
 what was dead in me
 and pulling it out of
 my tear ducts -- using
 it like ink to draw
 a little book of maps
 on tissue paper, blue
 and spider red like blood
 vessels)

you said you would come
get me after a day or two, that
I did not belong here anymore
and I did not know (until
 now) how right you were (how
 lost I was until those routes
 were drawn along my paper wrist,
 the dotted lines that led me
 back to that X-marks-the-spot
 called home)

it is plain enough to show
to train ticket sellers, or
strangers when I need
directions:

I belong
where you
are