What the Cartographer Left Unnamed

She drew the coastline from memory, each inlet a hesitation, each headland a word she almost said.

The peninsula that juts into grey water was named for no one, though she traced it three times with the same careful pressure.

There are places that resist being written down— the hour before a funeral, the field where the dog used to run, the specific weight of a Wednesday in November.

She left those blank on purpose, white spaces the eye slides over, thinking them ocean, not knowing they are the deepest land.

When the map was done she rolled it carefully, tied it with the string from a package no one remembers receiving, and placed it where she keeps the things she cannot look at directly yet.