Chris Stewart

The navigator

I remember the first bearing of love.
Our backs on the midnight grass,
the summer air stopped warm
as fingers charted skin.

I pulled a star down
from the map of the sky
drew a plot of it in my voice for you.
I crawled inside that message,
nestled through the calm of your hair,
and waited to be opened.

We lay inside the moon’s road
saw directions to the future.

Now your thoughts lie in the earth’s still latitude
dissipated like the archaeology of stardust
I return from the sky
to navigate the cartography of us.