All Maps Are Just Drawings Of Things We Cannot Hold In Our Hands: A Response to the Poem,Frida Kahlo To Marty McConnell

I am not good at staying gone, I am
good at
trying really hard to be Good
At Understanding Why he cannot help it
At explaining that he is tired
And picking up the broken bottle pieces
without getting too many cuts on my fingers
And starving myself skinny
because it helps with the crying
Because my body, empty, makes fewer tears, and
I am sure this is not science, it's just
a drawing of a map
And I like to think all maps are inaccurate
So when he follows me home
I can't know whether it was intentional
And I keep leaving the door unlocked, anyway
I am good at telling others to be fiercer
To stop believing in the poetry of hands
To bar the doors. Lay down brick powder. Burn the house down if you must.
Launch yourself into outer space.
But I do not know how to do that.
Instead, I fill my hands with things,
thinking he cannot touch them this way
But you can't hold piles
of glass shards and moth wings and rusty nails
all the time without
needing to flex your fingers
And when I finally
begin to brush the dirt from my palms
It's suddenly his fingers tracing the head line, the heart line, Saturn
returning
And I discover I am barefoot
and cannot stop
arriving