Abraham Aondoana
CARTOGRAPHY OF THE RIBCAGE
My body has always been a map
fetched where I myself do not speak the language.
Every rib a longitude,
each injury a transient country.
that swells and falls under my skin.
There are days when I wake up with a shoreline.
etched along my side--
a recollection of the night the world was so awkward.
and I was not used to pushing back.
There are places I never go to any more--
the valley at the back of my neck.
where fear once curled,
the narrow bridge of my spine
that bore too great a burden too long.
However, new boundaries are being created:
a country of breath
that expands when I remember
I am allowed to take up space,
a republic of pulse
and rages its self-sufficing,
beneath my fingertips.
I have been trained to read between my shoulderblades.
like open pages.
They tell me I have wings
that I haven't named yet.
Even the scars--
those pale, stubborn echoes--
are nothing but fault lines reminding me.
that the earth inside me
is still shifting,
still capable
of forming mountains.
When I finally place my hand
over the center of myself,
I can sense a silent revolution.
The map is still incomplete,
but every day,
my body redraws itself
toward freedom.