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LYN LIFSHIN
The Woman Who Loves Maps
doesn't want any
triple A or Frommers
no Michelin. she doesn't
want what's clear and
exact, accurate mileage,
highways and definite
entrances and exits.
She'd prefer what's
more like a handwritten
letter, old maps where
countries not still
around glow bronze under
a blue wash in the shape
their maker wanted them,
fantastic as shapes in
a children's book, a
dream, flying cats
and waltzing mammals,
cannibals and lovers
merging in a wreathe of
grass skirts and bluish
leaves. She's wild for what
she won't find on earth,
a map with an island
that's a Rorschach, her
hair spills over the
cove. She dreams she
abandons her thighs to its
almond, its tincture of
myrrh and rose. She locks
her map in the dark drawer,
still imagines its crushed
coral, lush indigo and
garnet. She spreads it out
on the bed like a lover
lets this place that does
not exist, except in her,
hands be the paradise she'll
move thru smoke to be lost in
Copyright LYN LIFSHIN
(all rights reserved; To copy this poem, please contact the poet)
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