A Map of Maps
for my grandfather, the geographer
Childhood was a mischief of maps,
coded imaginings on every wall--
quilts of the prairie states, Wabash
calabash, scrawl of river lace
Sault Ste Marie to the Missouri
confluence, periscopic contourings
of range and ridge and rim,
graded blues to the oceans’
deepest troughs, crosshatched
elevations of tectonic plates and slides.
The Mississippi delta spilled
into my bathtub. Climbing
the stairs a History of the West
1830 to 1910. Above the guestroom
dresser, Antarctica—misshapen
dinner plate in alabaster,
tiny black names etched
around its chipped and fluted edge.
Being anywhere meant standing
on a map. Eyes were compasses,
arms protracter, spine and shoulders
straightedge, theodolite,
in a back pocket always a notebook
for the legends and the scale.
A child could get lost as long as she
had a map to draw the tracings
of that errancy. Men made them.
But a girl could set out:
Deep South, Far East, True North.
for my grandfather, the geographer
Childhood was a mischief of maps,
coded imaginings on every wall--
quilts of the prairie states, Wabash
calabash, scrawl of river lace
Sault Ste Marie to the Missouri
confluence, periscopic contourings
of range and ridge and rim,
graded blues to the oceans’
deepest troughs, crosshatched
elevations of tectonic plates and slides.
The Mississippi delta spilled
into my bathtub. Climbing
the stairs a History of the West
1830 to 1910. Above the guestroom
dresser, Antarctica—misshapen
dinner plate in alabaster,
tiny black names etched
around its chipped and fluted edge.
Being anywhere meant standing
on a map. Eyes were compasses,
arms protracter, spine and shoulders
straightedge, theodolite,
in a back pocket always a notebook
for the legends and the scale.
A child could get lost as long as she
had a map to draw the tracings
of that errancy. Men made them.
But a girl could set out:
Deep South, Far East, True North.
|
(c) Karen McPherson
Skein of Light Airlie Press, 2014 |
