Geography

I put my hand where my left breast used to be.

When she called, I didn't want to tell her,
as if speaking the word over the telephone line
would confirm it, accept it, allow it
to keep growing. 
Let us forget the unsettled lava bubbling beneath.

Instead, I said,
I am a map of the world.

The oceans and continents I carry
inside, the fragile imprint of the earth 
I wear on my chest
I am the mainland now, full of prairies
and hills, canyons and valleys
spread out across my land
the unexplored mountain 
has been replaced,
craters don't keep secrets. 
I am reworking my topography.

We are all volcanoes. 

I heard my mother crying 
on the other side of the country; her tears
could flood the small cities I carry 
above my ribcage. She whispered
to the phone, "What do you look like?" 

I wanted to say, 
I look like the moon, beautiful and complete.
I wanted to say, 
I look like a gardenia leaf, solid and firm.

I wanted to say I am lovely.

Instead, 
rivers flowed down the new terrain. 
 

© Kelli Russell Agodon

Previously published in Geography (Floating Bridge Press)