Mercator Projection

Christine Safatly, Untitled – Lost 4. Pencil, soft pastel, sanguine, 45 x 29.5 cm (2020)

I’m all distorted, bigger   	   in the face
		than in the foot. I’ll take 
						     one sorrow
	to go, please. I can’t even finish the sorrows I 
 							           have at home. Whisper
coincidence to the mirror, tell
	 my cat she’s real purty. 
				         The shortest distance between two points is a 
		  crumpled up map. The whole 
		  floor is empty except me in my office,

the middle of a workday, the middle
of a workweek. 
		    I don’t want to talk
to anyone anyway. 

Rough bark flaking
			     from the stump, Spanish 
		   moss draped
	  elegantly across the branches. 

	  This tree is dead. It looks real purty. 

		   Full tire and rim bouncing errantly
	  across the highway, 
				      smashing the side
			     of my hood. Car distorted too, a lil
	  misshapen. 

					      Why must I be there
					      for everyone, friends, strangers, justify 
					      my existence, Arab life, love, etc?
Just want a little life in a hole, with 
		    Laurie and a few cats. 
					          Instead, labor,
	  pain, scars. 
			      The house shifts, it
						         makes a lot of bangs in the night.

I’m sure that’s usual, not an indication
of structural damage or weakness.