Who among us hasn’t played the game
of naming that which we cannot touch
of supposing fibrous wisp to be torso /
tiger / palace shifting across pure palette
of sky / loneliness or love or pride
called out in thin disguise?
Who among us hasn’t held their atlas
close / bounded map of comings and goings
our compulsion to make haste inscribed
in mutable blue on every page?
Who hasn’t looked up / looked out
toward elsewhere waiting for a sign?
[Refer: This poem refers to Daniel Torday’s essay, “Road Atlas.”]
Sue Swartz is a writer, visual artist, social activist, Jewish communal leader, and all-around good egg living in Bloomington, Indiana. Her poetry and prose have appeared in Poetica, Cutthroat, Lilith, 5 a.m., Smartish Pace, and elsewhere.
Image by Domonic Alves