Cartography of a Heart

They inform me that the heart is no larger

than a fist screwed tight in anger or desperation,

but I know it as a country

whose edges were inscribed in shaking pen.

This is where the valley of beginnings is,

where every first word,

every mistaken smile,

cuts a river that winds on forever.

The mountains rise where loss was born,

stone summits no cartographer will chart.

I have shores too —

torn, salt-worn lines

grooved by goodbyeings I could not stave off.

Every tide left something behind,

a handwriting of shells and quiet.

Some places are un-named,

forests thick with longing,

paths that circle back upon themselves

because I could not decide

which way would hurt less.

But here is a compass, all the same,

needle trembling towards gentleness.

It falters, sometimes,

through fog, through storms,

yet always comes back to the idea of home.

The cartography of the heart is imperfect,

mapped on parchment that tears too readily,

but it is honest:

a map of landscapes

built from every touch,

every absence,

every way I still walk alone.