This map defines your home. The names
are coy bones now. The spillway’s worn,
the floodgate stuck half-closed from age.
Under leaves that pile before the dam,
goldfish nose the surface for a meal.
This canal knows all, how style
must find a corner in the world
or die. You built that strong rock wall.
You commit forever to this charm—
bad luck in France—no money—fights.
If everyone you helped came here
you’d need a bigger map. From hills
behind you hawks fall suddenly as hate
to join you on the porch and chat
of cardinals and frozen waterwheels.
Lovers loved beneath that sycamore.
See them on the map, two dots on the lawn,
clawing as the sad canal goes by.
Wind is never cartographic line.
Real leaves fall. First blood of love is dry.
When wet it mapped a home that waited
sheltering the dead until you came.
for Jackson and Marthiel Mathews