The Cartographer

Marina Weiss


by Marina Weiss

The Cartographer

has a measured calm.

When she leaves the party, a cigarette smoldering

between her fingers, some look

for her nipples through her dress. Others ask

each other is she not somehow foreign?

In her speech—not accent-less,

precisely—each word’s appraised

with calipers. Perhaps she has

training? Pretentiousness? They digress:

it is strange, they say,

that she never takes anyone home, but

then she’s not a GPS, (and I went home

with her once). She encompasses herself

unusually well, tells me

to “Turn North” instead of left,

even inside, but when we undress in the moonlight to jump

off the old dock you’ll see, yes,

there’s a sea monster tattoo on her soft flesh.

All rights reserved to Marina Weiss

KT engdahl

Poetry: By Matthew Lippman