Читать книгу Rising - Jane Beal - Страница 10

I hold up the map.

I can’t understand it—

its red lines and blue lines

like arteries and veins

of a mysterious body

about to give up her blood

as I lower my needle

to her flesh—

this compass

still searching for true north

while the map shudders

in my trembling hands

and a songbird hidden

in a bush by the gas station

sings about something

impossible.