Love Is So Small It Can Tear

All I Desired Was To Walk Upon Such An Earth That Had No Maps.

She Had A Laugh That Hinted It Had Rolled Around Once Or Twice In The Mud.

We Die Containing A Richness Of Lovers And Tribes, Tastes We Have Swallowed, Bodies We Have Plunged Into And Swum Up As If Rivers Of Wisdom, Characters We Have Climbed Into As If Trees, Fears We Have Hidden In As If Caves. I Wish For All This To Be Marked On By Body When I Am Dead. I Believe In Such Cartography - To Be Marked By Nature, Not Just To Label Ourselves On A Map Like The Names Of Rich Men And Women On Buildings. We Are Communal Histories, Communal Books. We Are Not Owned Or Monogamous In Our Taste Or Experience.

For The First Forty Days A Child Is Given Dreams Of Previous Lives. Journeys, Winding Paths, A Hundred Small Lessons And Then The Past Is Erased.

There Was A Time When Mapmakers Named The Places They Travelled Through With The Names Of Lovers Rather Than Their Own.