(the negation of John 1:1 in relative time and space)
Hunting yard sales with a map and the want ads;
I drove, and she navigated.
Real navigating – before phones told us where to turn.
The other two, A woman and a man,
Were walking from Farlow Park to Church Street.
She would speak. He went mostly unnoticed.
The car turned down Waverly onto Church.
Moving from the familiar to the uncertain;
Trying to get the tires of the car onto the streets on the map.
Further down Church Street,
the old Volvo settled up to the curb,
and we met.
Knowing now that we construct our futures out of the past,
I have to reflect, all these years later,
on the brokenness of it all.
There is an alleyway scribbled on the map of the human heart.
Hidden doorways open to it, letting phantoms come and go.
You can tell by the holes in their shadows
that a broken heart is a broken mind.
As all the futures quietly worked themselves out,
three of us began speaking the words,
moving our faces and swirling our hands like zealous cartographers.
Then, there in front of the Church on Church Street,
The woman, with mind and vows so pure,
crushed our delusions.
Now and then I wonder
on the revelation she dropped on us:
“I’m sure you have a very nice map”
Andrew Furst is a poet, author, Buddhist teacher, photographer, artist, and a technologist. His poetry has appeared in Levee Magazine, Rue Scribe, Poetry Leaves, and Failed Haiku. He self-published his first volume of poetry Clouds Tell Us: Poetry at the Intersection of Nature and Our Humanity in 2016. Learn more about Andrew by visiting www.andrewfurst.net