Maps are for memory. I see
palm trees by the forest. Their shadows
form an X at noon. I dig
using hands feet mouth, bite
against treasure – not gold but worry dolls that I spit
out like multi-coloured teeth into my palm.

They tell me I buried
them here when I wasn’t
my self. I tell them my predicament – of finding
out who I am again by knowing
what troubles I gave them. The dolls relinquish
my worries one by one.

Anna Jacobson