4 September 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 3

A Love Poem

by JAMISON T. CRABTREE

to a map

Maps are never skin. I know

that you're only a guide but

I prefer to pretend otherwise.

Lean over, let me slide my hand

under the couplings of letters

and numbers that cinch your stockings

together. Let me spread you open, let me

undo the tangle of rivers, interstates, and

country roads until they spill out

soft as hair across my lap.

The rustle of sheets hangs in the air

as I trace out each route, the friction

of my fingertips against each delicate

path. The key makes you real, it stretches

inches into miles. It can turn

the idea of something into the thing itself.