Emily Pérez: Directions

The toothy man shows me.
The toothy man knows. Fingers
my basket, my meats, my rolls,
my treats and sweet deliverables,
sniffs at my clothes, pulls
at hem of worsted wool
with cared-for nails, carefully
he lays out the way: a line in the loam
a stack of white stones
on featherbed moss, transcribes
a map of missteps, misthoughts.