What the Cartographer Left Unnamed

At the edge of the known world she drew a small fox in the margin, not to mark a warning but because the peninsula reminded her of longing.

All the rivers she named for rain. The mountains she left blank— what you cannot cross deserves no syllable, only the white weight of paper.

I have walked her coastlines with a finger, pressed where the ink thins and trails into a question, the soft smear where her hand rested before she changed her mind.

The cities are spelled in a script that never hardened into stone. She knew how a place can vanish between the drawing and the arriving.

Somewhere in the fold-crease is a valley I have dreamed twice. No road leads to it. No name holds still long enough to call it home.