Maps Have to Lie to Work as Maps

But not too much. Words are maps,

Wrote aqualung Adrienne

When she dove down to the wreck,

The wreck and not the story

Of the wreck. How right that was.

Each one of us a wee map,

Some of us drawn by pirates,

Some by proper surveyors,

But most by cartographers

Relying on secondhand

And thirdhand accounts

They trust are reliable.

A few words, though, are those maps

Common to fantasy books,

Those little sampler worlds,

Featuring one of each kind

Of topography maps know—

Mountains, meadows, cities, ways,

Boundaries, deserts, swamplands,

Carefully marked battle sites,

Maybe a castle or two.

Slough of Despond. You could map

Planets with phrases like that.

You have. She’s in the real wreck

Now, Rich is, because Rich was.

But all the words in her poems

Remain tiny treasure maps

That turn up in people’s mouths,

Bookstores, public libraries,

Translations, under mountains,

Deep in clouds. Many small maps,

Atlases bound together.

Gaia’s grandchildren, one

And all. That’s one of the lies,

Maybe one lie too many.

What’s that etymology?