even if I made a map of everywhere 

I’ve been, I’d still be in Kansas 

              the same bare-boned trees 

              the same wind-soaked prairie 

when I landed the five of cups, I knew 

​

I should forgive my husband should 

let his hands skim my vertebrae again 

  

 but I can’t stop thinking of Kansas—

open sky peeling skin from my chest 

ragged air cracking my neck and face 

​

              next time, 

I’ll rifle through the deck—tuck 

the five of cups at the bottom, pull 

only from the top  

 I’ll find the moon, 

maybe the chariot