The Atlas

I do not know how anyone
gets to this age
and doesn’t have calluses
that protect the pain
from the violent outside.

I am an exile in normalcy.
I come from somewhere between
the dangerous fringe
and the safe dome of the bell-curve.
I am a champion at play-pretend.
I am quiet and gather many things.

I have learned valuable lessons this way.
I am collecting them in an atlas
for navigating the world as a woman.
It’s an atlas that will die when I die,
but all women, even the normal ones, have
a similar atlas.

This woman-atlas has all kinds of maps.

For example:

There is a map for crossing a parking lot
where a strange man is too close
or too interested.

There is a map that has grief on one side
and a garden on the other.
We move back and forth many times,
but the map is different every time
you have to make the journey.
The journey is never easy.
The garden is rarely beautiful.

There are maps for hiding pain,
hating food,
aging without aging,
building disguises,
leaving the body temporarily when bad things happen to it.

The maps do not promise cohesion or joy.
They are only for survival.

And sometimes they are wrong.
And sometimes it’s better not to survive.