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Cartography

— Leslie Marie Aguilar

As if hands, these clumsy platters, could carry me home? It’s been a while, & I’m lost in a haze. Howl at my wrists most days. Chant like a witch who’s never late or on time. A shift in atmosphere, instead. My journey’s been suspect. An agate sprouted from my right eye, & now I travel in circles trying to navigate the circumference of this new sun. If this sounds like a cry for help, like shouting into a canyon & hoping to hear a voice different than your own, it’s not. I’m fond of exploration on a supernatural scale, where distance is measured as the absence of darkness instead of a fight against the light.


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