Topography of Not
BY QUINN WHITE
I read healthy people share treasure,
blueprints, a dead lizard, an inscribed ring.
Names create, shared names unfold
a map of the thing created, complete
with volcanoes, gold mines, sea beds,
puddles, hole-soled shoes, fault lines,
a topography of not, for example
the word daughter. I name my past
daughter, and my daughter is less
secret, more jewelry—The charge
of admitting I gave her up is tourism:
“I went whale watching. Here are the pictures.”
I want to meet her like you did,
and you, and the every other person
I tell what happened, who says they too
didn’t choose, weren’t kept,
but are glad now to share life,
even though life took, takes,
will take without giving its name.
