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by Rachel L. Snyder When I learned the world it was flat in a map, Earth charted wide across the teacher's desk. If I dug a hole through the crust, shoveled rock and hot bone from the plot laid before me, I'd emerge on the table--China still millions of miles away. I would point to Alaska, edges tearing towards the Pacific tine, cast a double-armed current across the horizon and tap my strained fingers to Siberia's ridge. Now I hear Western Civilization and get tangled in California, the center of my atlas dipping like a buoy in the papered plain of the North Atlantic. Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.
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