Before a globe is pressed into a sphere,

the shape of the paper is an asterisk.


This planet is holding our place in line:

look out for metallic chips of meteor


hurtling through the universe. On my drive

to work, I saw my neighbor’s lawn boiling


over with birds. Like the yard was a giant lasagna

and the birds were the perfectly bubbled cheese,


not yet crisped and brown. And I was hungry

to keep driving, driving all the way down


to central Florida, to my parents’ house

and into their garage, and up the pull-down stairs


in their attic to find my old globe from 1983.

I used to sit in the living room with Kenny Rogers


playing on mom’s record player. I spun and spun

that globe and traced my fingers along


the nubby Himalayas, the Andes — measured

with the span of my thumb and forefinger


and the bar scale that showed how many miles

per inch. I tried to pinch the widest part


of the Pacific Ocean, the distance between me

and India, me and the Philippines. The space


between the shorelines was too wide. My hand

was always empty when it came to land, to knowing


where is home. I dip my hands in the sea. I net

nothing but seaweed and a single, dizzy smelt.


–Lucky Fish (2011)

Photo By: Jiuck