I don’t know anything
like the back of my hand,
even the back of my hand.
These veins are not arterial
streets I follow home.
They are not rivers leading
me to the pounding sea
The center of my body
is where all maps end.
I’ve tried to memorize my topography.
I’ve tried to trace my fingers
over the peaks and valleys,
reading every pore like braille,
but my body remains
a field obliterated by snow.