the evil Cartographer’s hand by Martin Hayes

centuries old maps
rolling fields of red
hill ranges of bone
scale worked out
in sky sea star
the evil Cartographer’s hand
pulling nations
from rage to wall to war
trying to wipe out
all of the mistakes
he has made in his head
love empathy compassion
“any spare change, mister”
but he can’t do that
too late,
they’re in these maps of ours
unrolled out through our limbs
fluttering like flags
on a toothpick stuck in our big toe
a breastplate for our torso
two fingers up
the Cartographer’s shit hole
you cannot change the soil
that grew us
despite these new maps
you try to unfurl
they lie this land
doesn’t exist
these hands
of ours
just hold older
than any plan
you have

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