Even before we arrived, we knew we
would return, the excuse we told ourselves,
sustaining the world at the time but soft
as limestone and full of holes, an entire
peninsula floating as if on a
cistern, an arid plain above under
worlds of water. For many, happiness
is seasonal; for others, joy cannot
be repressed. Our maps show the way, silent
compasses drawn to comfort instead of
north, which keeps us wandering, shedding our
skins as often as our outfits, making
and unmaking ourselves, the palms of our
hands crisscrossed with lines that contradict each
other and compete for supremacy
while we’re negotiating. Here are a
table and several chairs, there is our
conversation as light as banter, as
useful as water for horizon, our
adopted continent drifting in place.

Sandra Kolankiewicz’s poems have appeared widely, most recently in One, Fortnightly Review, Otis Nebulae, Galway Review, Trampset, Concho River Review, London Magazine, New World Writing and Appalachian Review.