Prose block #2

The flatness of the map makes my eyes ripple, conflagrate, bellow like continents of snow under wind. Like syllables, the land breaks up upon further inspection. Even in this desperation, my fingers collapse, become limbs that walk with solemn steps across the Mediterranean Sea. If your shoulders were a boat, my wrists would be the anchor. Up to my knees in snow, up to my knees in no. We have become a quizzical guide, a folded compass that meets you halfway. Because of this, we are lost and still in the belly of the whale, halves of our bodies somewhere on the other side of the border. One eye here, the other eye there; the lips, parted across miles of ocean, rest on the restless floor.