the skin of the earth is seamless
—Gloria Anzaldúa

1

From Mercatur and Gall-Peters projections

to the mapus mundi of seafaring explorers,

atlases showing oil, water or CIA

designations, we have become our maps.

 

Once mountains established borders, once

Rome was the world. When a traveler

breached the narrow cleft of rock

opening to Petra’s plat of tombs

 

or a canyon alcove defined the limits of

Ancestral Puebloan life, who

belonged and who was kept out?

Whose branch traced a map in wet earth?

 

From their power, cartographers

place borders out of reach,

crowd inhabitants close

as if playing a parlor game.

 

With big guns or quieter betrayal

map making’s omnipotence

pummels its angry lines

through memory. . .