Map
You aren’t listening
said the tree
the map isn’t found
in a numbering of needles, in sorting
by hue
or desire
or in measuring
our height, and girth —
life isn’t
a matter
of scale.
Instead,
set down your pen
and the thin sleeve
of your skin
and come closer, opened, holding
the small stones
of your fears
each meant
for a cairn
set along a new path
through the thickets
of what it means
to be a body —
this is the map you seek:
a living
in contours
rooted
in the rich dust
of love
and loss
while stretching
with new leaves
to the sky.
This poem came together after I learned about the work of Resmaa Menakem (you can do this yourself here). To me, his wise and articulate perspective on racialized trauma feels incredibly important — both in general, and personally, as I work to map out my role in our country’s racial revolution. It feels like a puzzle piece I’ve long been searching for and, finally, can now glimpse in a nearly-out-of-reach space under the couch. Menakem’s insights also reminded me: Going after our missing pieces will challenge us, and surprise us. Stretching further than is comfortable isn’t really about what we retrieve, or even in completing the big picture (as satisfying as that idea may be). What matters more is the life we live in the reaching, with integrity, for each other.]]>