The man points: I surveyed that. The woman sees large brick homes with few feet between them. Empty decks. Blinded windows. The man who surveyed your land makes money from marking an imaginary boundary. A deed you can find in the county courthouse. Plats. Plumb lines. The woman laughs. How does one own what owns itself? Just look at a map. The Panhandle of Florida. Where does Alabama end and why? Because a man drew a sword and drew a map and then drew a claim. The land is the land. None of it is yours. All of it is.
Rosemary Royston holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University and is a lecturer at Young Harris College. Rosemary’s poetry has been published in journals such as Southern Poetry Review, The Comstock Review, Main Street Rag, Coal Hill Review, STILL, FutureCycle, and Alehouse. Her chapbook Splitting the Soil is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She lives and works in Northeastern Georgia. theluxuryoftrees.wordpress.com