Mapping out territory
in 1984—
my older cousin
ditched me
in the scrub brush behind our granny’s house
locked in a dog crate, five years old,
howling.
Nine years ago, I taught her oldest child
how to write her name
on the back of a grocery list.
My hand huge over her crayon
clamped fist.
Paper plastered across her boxy little torso
like a peace treaty
as she galloped through the living room.
I was teaching seventh grade when my cousin died,
sugar gumming up her system
like a glinting trail of dried snot.
Unable to focus,
my mind
flitted over the Cascades
past a lake full of tree trunks
poking up like rotten molars
landed in Eastern Washington
next to my grandmother’s backyard—
next to my cousin’s red curls.
A map is not a neutral document,
one of my students parroted
bubble eyed.
And I muttered
that’s right
correct.
From Tributaries (University of Arizona Press, 2015). Copyright © 2015 by Laura Da’. Used with the permission of the author.