Beloved,
I read somewhere
That the Inuit carved contoured maps of Greenland’s coastline
From small pieces of driftwood…
Things that could fit in the palm of your hand, or mitten
Things buoyant, that stayed afloat atop of a sea of salt water
Things that could be felt, and therefore trusted, in absolute darkness
To help steer your vessel home.
And isn’t my love, become grief, like that?
Each soul friend’s fingerprints
Furrowed into the surfaces of my driftwood mind
The sulci of this nervous tissue
Testament to those who long ago found and saved me
To sculpt my every understanding thereafter
With a touch of their love
