Yesterday, with words,
I drew a map of the heart,
avoiding such terms as maudlin,
vulgar, and inertia. Because
the heart moves and the body
twists around it, this way
and that, walking through dreams
and remorse. Because there is
mutilation and denial,
people ignore the road signs
to drive headlong over euphoria
into ignorance. Maps
are needed.

But even maps have a will,
it seems, to twist against
the compass rose’s certainty
that north always points up.
Because some things are too rare
to waste on such recklessness,
words like forever and sorrow
carve their own roads on the heart,
where love is written, a most
important and ordinary
endearment.

© 2006 Christine Klocek-Lim