By David Anson Lee
Bellaire, Texas, United States
When the last map burned,
we traced new roads from thumbprints:
salt in the seams,
a country stitched by small hands.
A child learns the coast
by listening for gulls;
an older woman counts orchards
the way she once counted prayers.
Every mouth carries a river’s memory:
names of fish, the taste of rain.
We lift the globe like a bowl,
tilt it until teaspoons of light
slide into the cracked places
and teach the wounds
how to flower.