We Traveled Far &

we were rash. the map's crease
turned out to hold deep canyons,
a long sad song of voyage.
the gazetteer, the dead end of the road.
                                  O mothers, be consoled,
if existence were balanced on a knife point,
if our crossing were nothing but a burden,
then the map would not be folded,
then there would be no map.

Copyright © 2005 Jesse Lee Kercheval All rights reserved
from Chelsea
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission