\"Grandma,\" I whisper, tracing her arm\'s map,
\"Your elbows hold secrets—faces in the folds.
This one looks like Aunt Gladys, smiling,
And this other, here—an angry pitbull snarls.\"
She huffs a breath through her soft laughter,
Pushes my finger away, a slight protest.
\"Nelson, exploring me isn’t your expedition,
You’ve done enough cartography for today.\"
But I am not quite finished discovering,
Not ready to fold away her human atlas.
\"Can I see your knees? Just for a minute?\"
She plants her hands on her hips, unmoved.
I think of all the maps I haven’t traced,
All the rivers of stories in her freckles,
The valleys carved deep in her tender joints,
The gold laced between her silver-threaded hair.
\"You’re lucky I let you see my elbows,
Those are sacred grounds, boy, sacred grounds!\"
She shakes her head, a queen in retreat.
And I, a would-be explorer, left smiling, still.