These Maps Are Ghosts 

Maps give us a single dimension
from the eye of the victor. 

History guided the cartographer’s hand:
millions massacred— 
meant a line carved farther south, farther 
west in the name of Accomplishment. 
The flattened depiction does not show 
the deep graves—or the families 
turned into sun-baked mounds deprived 
of a bare minimum of dignity. 
At a quick glance, those lines 
and labels appear reasonable, justified 
through centuries of silence. 

Move closer, put your face right 
up to the creased paper 
so you can catch 
the stomach-souring scent of decay. 
Rivers of dried tears mixed 
with spilled blood. 
Trace your hands across  
the grooves, shading, and pen points. 
The truths buried below tremble, 
call out to you—beg to be heard, believed. 
Step back and see 
the smear of ink on your hands. 

Revenge

A living, breathing tree
has never pricked me
with a splinter.
But, I’ve been 
stabbed 
by many 
pieces of
chopped 
wood.