What the Cartographer Left Unnamed

At the edge of every map he drew a trembling hand— not a warning, a confession.

He knew the coast fell away into something he could not reduce to lines.

There are places grief goes that have no roads leading in, no rivers naming themselves on the way down.

We find them anyway. We walk in without knowing until the ground softens and the light changes.

He left those spaces blank and signed his name beside them, as if to say: I was here. I did not look away.