by Emily Lupita Plum

I used to have dreams
of the route you’d take
to leave.

I could see on the map
the mountain collapsing
after you’d driven
right through the middle,
the paper folding up
into thousands of tiny squares
with you still inside.

I’m smoothing it out,
opening the map to find you
but everything has moved:
the borders, the desert,
the long stretches
of flat land, they have changed.

a different language.
a new country.

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