Books press. You’ve reminded me of
that moment when as a reader I decide
to go on. When I know the words will
take me somewhere. Like they were ladders
up against a wall. Black ink on white paper.
Zipper teeth meshing the soft fabric of time
occupied. I will go on with you. I will
open my dusty life and be the fine dust
swerving in a sunbeam.
Books span. You’ve reminded me of
that moment when as a writer I decide
to continue. All the similes. The empty
paper, receptive as an unmade bed. The first
mark creating disorder, as if a child had
stamped their foot on the surface of an icy
puddle or dropped a pebble into an ant’s nest.
Words are bridges over rivers, and the gum
between our fingers. I will stick with you.
Books bind. You have reminded me of that
moment when the light is going as the sun
falls, and everything is suddenly luminous.
And, the world is new, again, even as night
comes. How moths replace wasps, and birds
gather. Where words press. How we need
to move for them to touch us. To let them
settle, not grab or trap them in a net. I will
watch you fly and hear your words.
