I have no map

save paths I’ve walked across your skin,
etched bright with ink,
pressed pink and raw
by slender braids.

I’ve measured up
the contours of your land,
laid carefully my line
like a surveyor.

The bite of the rope
on the tender flesh of your throat,

wound round the rising
watershed of your breasts
like topographic lines
or trails of footsore pilgrims

wandering their paths
toward Jerusalem.