Poem 45

circumstances change, of course, but at the time this was what the sea-floor of my heart resembled. 


Below the ocean
In her jewelry box of
Precious metals
Untapped, her
Impatient hands
Pull the furrows
From the floor.
A carpet rippled by
Careless child-feet;
A discarded draft,
The seafloor face wears
Ridges. And they carry me.
I trust the compass.
And he points me North.
No question, whether
I follow the needle
If I will arrive. Love
Is trusting the magnets.
Letting them pull the
Metal from my skin.
Letting them point me North.
It is North
Where my compass points.
But when this night passes on,
A parade of lifetimes from this
Moment, some heart
Will reach for this compass
And he will point her to
The under-bellied pole. 
Turned over white like an 
Expired fish. Will
She trust him then?
Will the magnets be wrong?
If the Earth’s core reads:
South.
Will the compass falter if
He tells the truth? Are
Heartstrings mistaken
If they follow?
Be honest:
Are you still searching for North?
My soul, My hand,
My helpless compass
Wait on the ridges of the
Seafloor to shift again.
If the crust swallows them up,
Someday too far-out to grasp,
They might convince my
Compass-heart to return.
But now: the novelty; the impossibility
Of compasses that face South;
That whisper South
Define this topography.
Oh! Map me this way.
And ask your deepest
Bone-ridges:
North—Darling—or South?
–ECW
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