Poem by Antonia Clark  •  Art by Jill Burhans

It falls to me, a woman with no sense
of direction, to trace the route,

call out the turns and junctions, finger
on the map, eyes watering in wind.

We hoopskirt the cities, aim for wayside
towns – every gulch, gore, gully.

Your eyes swerve to my bare foot
on the hot dash tapping out a signal:

take us down a dusty track, into the high
grass, yield to the lazy buzzing heat.

You take me, make me your compass,
even though you know I'm winging it.

Maps, worn at the creases, tear apart
in my hands, flap from the window like birds.

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