I’m so taken by these maps

& their prettified economy

lemons, cows, an oil derrick
pomegranates, a camel, rugs

to draw a world in the language of want

I flip to another graphic
it’s where the missiles landed—

that’s my luxury /casual movement
among unshattered windows

and through oneself like an archive

I want to say it’s a hunger
for knowing things

in the cartographer’s
scarified hand // no ideas but in labor neatly

arranged

in space
you’ll never see

these pastel indicators
this beet and half a lemon

redrawing the provinces
with my fingers

I’ve read from a distance
about the way tulips grow
upside down in this place

to want for an icon

as if to say: is this my village
pixelated into the side of

a mountain

or you can’t make a map like this anymore

or this, this is where I was from—

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