NOTE: For this, I had many problems in figuring out who was the narrator. I settled on 2 narrators: The map speaking about herself and the cartographer thinking to himself- as narrated by her. I don’t know any other way to handle these two things. So, there is a psychological duet between them yet unbeknownst to them- perhaps. They are together in the same room but isolated in thoughts and dimensions.
I originally wrote this in May, back in Morocco, but I added to it and edited it here in Portugal. It's still a work in progress, I think.
The Environment
Alone in his workspace,
My cartographer—
Shadows illuminated
by a candle.
Slowly unrolling delicate parchment
documenting HIStory…of HERstory.
His index finger traces the vellum—
Textured memory
of her undulating landscape.
He locks down its edges
with padded weights.
Pouring the ink, uncapping the quill, he is ready to record
the estuarine slope of her collarbone,
the hollow of her throat’s valley,
the soft foothills of her breasts,
the river of her pulse.
Moving the protractor southwards,
you pause and take in a deep breath before returning your focus:
the canyon of her spine,
the hidden cave of her navel,
the sand dunes of her hips,
the delta of her thighs.
My cartographer,
eyes strained.
Every contour of mine is etched in lambent memory,
following my topography,
lingering at a specific path—
a specific memory.
Fingers stained
with my indelible ink.
A breeze rushes in,
candle flickers,
wax melts.
Salt air
rising up from the sea,
Scented with amber and moss.
Quietude washes over.
Silence prevails through a cacophony of absolute isolation.
Vast distances separate
my cartographer
from my domain.
The Metric
Admiring last evening’s work,
he studies the scale bar: a ratio of 1:10,000
An annoying reminder
of rigid physical distances
between his drafting table
and where I sleep, dream, exist.
Reaching for his contour pen,
he triangulates to a desert of blank parchment.
Pinpointing where my pulse beats,
he sets to work
carving fissured valleys of silence,
plotting the geography of his loneliness—
moonlight miles away from my coordinates.
The Awakening
My cartographer stills.
Whispers?
A voice inside his map,
his creation,
softly inquires:
“Who surveys my terrain?
Who dares to measure my peaks, my valleys, my coastlines, my boundaries
etching into memory every contour
with absolute patience and focus?
Will some other navigator take possession
of that which is not his to explore?”
The thrill and the fear
of the unexplored edges,
stepping into uncharted territory—
MY territory.
Beware…
Are your intentions of pure reverence,
or conquest?
I am your Frankenstein.
Your map comes alive.
I challenge your intentions,
my cartographer.
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