Ink

In a high and quiet office

a ruler crossed a river

that the ruler never saw.

The nib ran dry mid-village.

They dipped, and drew again.

Drawn in ink —

a stranger's steady hand.

The map was very tidy.

The land was made to match.

The line went through an orchard;

now half a family harvests

where the other half was born,

and the water answers elsewhere.

Drawn in ink,

retraced in checkpoints.

The crossing takes a lifetime.

The river takes a minute.

The atlas holds the border.

The ground has never heard of it.

But cousins aim at cousins

where their grandmothers picked plums.

Drawn in ink —

and ink, for all its armies,

is water in the end.

The river redraws nightly

what the ruler drew once.