Wayfinder or Polaris
was the name of the poem
that had been ping-ponging around my periphery
for the better part of two months

This, I thought, would be my magnum opus
the most perfect expression
of the safest direction
I’ve ever known

I envisioned myself writing it out
finally
in Word on my Dell
between case notes
or maybe on a scrap piece of paper
while parked waiting for a client

No fanfare

that is how I imagined it
Important things always flowed effortlessly
like the boy with hair
that was my new favorite color

But that was not the reality
that I have ever lived in

Wayfinder: Polaris
My dad had tried to explain it to me many times:
“The northern star is located in the little dipper;
it is the last star in the handle”

It was lost on me, though

So I tattooed the words on my skin
never considering the still raised lines could
somehow outlast the sentiment
of the lover who never actually

had to speak the words

*typing…