Compass
In the third week,
little signs started marking my heart’s place on the map.
Lines drawn between them, meandering
like your hand along my spine
when you bent to kiss my shoulderblade.
Kissing Cape Town, then Egypt,
this exotic and foreign visitor
entering into lawlessness and ruin.
I missed your face in front of me
Your voice in my ear, a key.
And I started to see how to find my own way
down the ten million miles of road ahead,
my eyes closed
as though I’d developed some strange powers of divination,
the needle of my heart turning lazily westward
toward true north and you.