what’s not on the map

a standard mode of operation i say to toni
about the sensation of feeling
pretend this isn’t an email i write 
the subject line of an email
to someone who spends about 90% of her job
reading/writing Emails
saran-wrapped with a note about 
too-spicyness of the perfectly round
ginger/bread cookies
nicely arranged 
made by holly
and how they are not
too gingerspicy at all
just perfect
and also just right between soft/crunchy

how right there at the restaurant table
as if she were picking a piece of lint off
her sweater or adjusting a clip
in her hair,
first pricks her finger and then
pulls out the syringe
fills it with insulin
and injects it into a place between
the waist of her pants and where her shirt
falls over it

as i walk the secret paths i’ve come to find
(which is one of my favorite things
about learning a place – finding what’s
not on the map), a nostalgia sweeping in
on the northern new mexico
spring-in-the-air feeling
but i am not sucked in or under,
just a lightness on/in this skin
and a soft smell in the air

the roses and their absolute redness
lined up on the counter

each in their own glass
along with a not from fiona
for each of us to take one


the tallness of me cast
on the pink dirt/sand ground
in the hour of lengthening shadows

i raise my hand in the kitchen
and say in defense of soft people


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