On our first wedding anniversary, you gave me
all the English counties on an antique map
so I’d finally learn how this place fits together.
You probably thought I’d have no more excuses,

but months later, I still haven’t done my homework,
still can’t picture Hertfordshire or Kent,
or tell you which sea Yorkshire touches.
I say I’m waiting for you to frame it,

but two decades into this torrid affair
with my adopted country, maybe I still enjoy
my willful ignorance, tell myself it’s charming
to have to ask, where exactly is that?

You haven’t had time to frame my present.
Work keeps you busy looking at other maps
whose contents I can’t ask about,
with enemy ships instead of pretty names.

And anyway, when you’re here we’re occupied
with catching up on life. We sleep and cook,
and ramble with the children, your slender hands
unfolding fragile ordnance surveys, soft with use.

This morning, I miss your Englishness,
maybe enough to finally lay that map out
on the bedspread like a fresh new lover,
learn the names with curious fingertips.