SARAH CAREY

Geography

Do you remember when we understood
our place on earth? We moved,

at home with ourselves,
children of our own incessant growth,

seeking our mothers in each other,
or any good microclimate of warmth.
 
Love, listen: before sunscreen,
I absorbed every ultraviolet ray,
 
no fear of freckle or burn, until one day,
poolside in my black bikini,

I dozed off as sun beat into me
that pigment isn’t permanent—

some stars we feel as friend can turn on us.
After the peel, the sloughing off

of damaged cells revealed Florida
on my chest: a spotted peninsula

for curiosity seekers to finger-walk
highways, back roads, a stop to linger

at the Circle K, to trace a path to glistening
Panhandle beaches, blister—

what we see, or think we see,
this world one endless bubble of light.

My breath falls, rises with the sea.
Some tourists visiting my landmarks stayed,

sailed with me, some veered off course.
One took a side trip to the big cat reserve

for the keeper-of-the-day experience. They were
game, but gone too soon on other expeditions.

I looked into celestial navigation, 
to evaluate my position,

searched on land and at sea for bearing.
Dropped anchor occasionally.
 
Arrived at my present state to turn again,
with all my scars, Icarian,

to face the sun,
my wrong cartography.
 
Look: you’re here; I’m here, I say
to my flawed body,

always listening for a guide.
You should know, whoever you are

in whatever hurricane bar or Denny’s
you wind up in, you are home.

Sarah Carey is a graduate of the Florida State University creative writing program. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Grist, Frontier Poetry, Split Rock Review, SWIMM Every Day and elsewhere. She works and lives in Gainesville, Florida. Visit her at SarahKCarey.com or on Twitter @SayCarey1.