Compass Needles
Jordan Hirsch
The arrows on the road
match the arrows on
the inside of my arms.
Both move as I do,
compass needles
always pointing back
home. Quivering,
not for a place but
for a person, the one
who stopped the hourglass,
a grain of sand lodged
in the bottleneck.
It chafes, and the arrows
between my fingers itch,
constant reminders that
I’m gone. But you’re gone,
too. What do the arrows
want me to do? Grab a
shovel and dig up the body
that you left at the same
time you left me
scarred and tattooed with
grief? The scabs fell off
eventually, with more itching
after the needle finally
stopped. Inked all over with
maps that don’t make sense.
Miles and years without you,
and new arrows appear,
but they lead me nowhere.
I am still lost.
Jordan Hirsch writes speculative fiction and poetry in Saint Paul, MN, where she lives with her husband and their two perfect cats. Her work has appeared with Octavos, Star*Line, and other venues. Find her on Twitter: @jordanrhirsch