Rachel L. Snyder
When I learned the world it was flat
in a map, Earth charted wide
across the teacher's desk.
If I dug a hole through the crust,
shoveled rock and hot bone
from the plot laid before me,
I'd emerge on the table--China
still millions of miles away.
I would point
to Alaska, edges tearing
towards the Pacific tine,
cast a double-armed current
across the horizon and tap
my strained fingers to Siberia's ridge.
Now I hear Western Civilization
and get tangled in California,
the center of my atlas dipping like a buoy
in the papered plain of the North Atlantic.
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