Unmapped; Static Between Stations by McLord Selasi

Unmapped

I trace the veins on my wrist

like fault lines on an old map,

the ink-blue routes of a geography

no one but me inhabits.

Each beat is an earthquake,

splitting the silence

into fragments of breath.

Last night I dreamt

my body was a city

I couldn’t navigate—

the streetlamps burned out,

bridges dissolved into fog,

and somewhere,

a clock tower rang

without a bell.

I woke with my hands clenched

around nothing,

but my pulse still whispered

coordinates I’ll never find.

Static Between Stations

The radio mutters in the corner,

half-songs, broken sermons,

voices slipping through static

like ghosts rehearsing for an audience.

I turn the dial,

but every channel is a mirror:

my own mouth speaking back at me,

garbled, delayed,

as though I’ve already said

what I was afraid to think.

Somewhere between the stations

a fragment holds—

a single word: Stay.

I don’t know if it came

from a stranger,

a god,

or the version of myself

I abandoned years ago.

Still, I leave the radio on,

let it buzz like a wound

that refuses to close.