Sara Rosenberg
The Mapmaker
Tell me about the time
I shadowed you to work
and climbed up to your drawing table
with its gems of colored pencils.
Tell me about the crisp, rolled maps
shaded with your geologist precision
and how we searched the window
for gulls shearing the mist above the bay.
The receptionist brought me lemon drops.
You swung closed the heavy door.
One by one, they knocked against
the wood–colleagues who wanted your advice,
and you had so much to give, a mind as clear as water.
Tell me how to trace the lines of distance,
to glean richness from the deepest furrow.
I swung my legs into the office breeze
while in their swift canyons of air,
birds dove into the blue. Tell me
about the polished desk. The corded phone.
Tell me that if I rang it, you would answer.