Head to toe she’s covered in street signs
Curving lines sketch endless roads
that feed her barcode-stripe interstates
Cities oozing-bloody dot her torso
A cartographer’s jagged mark
Every empty inch of her arms is surveyed, sold, and severed
They build new towns, because the small ones are far too big now
Her mountains are peeled back like wallpaper
Fresh cedar homes replace her paint chip dreams
and her favorite tree becomes a new kitchen floor
The last bird chokes on its first cigarette
as the sun seems to fall out of motion
The mapmakers look up and ask “Mother, Why?”
as she’s strangled with army green oceans.
