Sometimes I lose the curve to my earth
so I wake him from where he sleeps.
Everything feels flat, I might say,
tell me about trade routes from China.
Maybe this time he will unwind parchment rolls,
thumb through sheets of centuries
to find a story that begins
with spun threads of turquoise and coral,
which lead to dipping vats in Burma and winter wool
for soldiers fighting for Napoleon,
with metal buttons sewn on sleeves.
He’ll coax me across the waters, asking
to imagine cotton plantations in the south
and sweatshops burning in Manhattan.
These stories roll my edges under, again
and again—rebuilding a sphere that spins
with talk of cargo on a wharf
and freighters weighing anchor.