I walked through the night
to some place unknown
when I could no longer see
on any map any road,
waiting for the sun
to blanch the cliffs —
their quiet, untold past.
My sextant lost under
the hard stars, I began
to long for you on that
path, wanting to call
the darkness a lie,
wanting the curve of
your back as a halt.
Still it was too early
to know, but not for
that stone inside me
to crack — a chalk
whiter than my skin
and my bones, your
words came cutting,
cutting bright. It was
not on any map,
that line not mine,
and I tried to ignore it
I don’t deny, yet
it kept running,
running into chalk,
as if ceding to rain
and also, to light.