a final cartography

i’d just been through the process
of ripping all the maps
with your city’s name on them
out of every atlas i came across.

i thought that this way
i would wipe you off the face of the earth.

but you reappeared
in the only city i refused to delete
back in my town for one day.

as soon as i speak to you
the words start running together:

to stop my fingers shaking
i grip my chopsticks with
an archer’s steadfastness

and i catch myself wishing
that they really were arrows

(or tiny poisoned spears)
(or some other soft technology of destruction)

that i could fire neatly between your eyes
and around your mouth

to put a quiet end to this
little charade.