Imaginary Landscape

"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.