Atlas by Tim Moder

I am not a poet of witness. I swear I didn’t see anything.
My mother curtained the windows. My father provided my education.
What happens in this house must remain in this house.
I am some wood from a tree that was struck by lightning,
carved out, partial. Seared, I smell of electricity.
I am to be found in the illustrations of fables, a smiling fox
dressed in the green casual clothing of the working class.
I am in the bindings of a great atlas, silver threaded, age worn,
cracked, a topographic contour to press into lost fingers
while lost eyes search the land for recognition.