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Posts Tagged ‘books’

Every Time

 

 

and after the lights were out

and after my mother had kissed me goodnight

I would pull from under my pillow

 

the book, the flashlight, and for hours

in the quiet house, no matter how difficult

the day had been, no matter how low I felt,

 

for those hours I was so glad to be alive

in someone else’s story, and every time,

when I when I tugged long enough on its lines,

 

I could not help but notice

how each story was my story, too.

 

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The words that will change us

remember, perhaps,

when they were first found

by the person willing

to serve them—

 

they carry in their serifs

a willingness to wait,

late nights of wrestling silence,

the wing of receiving, the joy

in sharing the gift.

 

When we read them, they enter us

like tiny notes in a score we never knew

we were part of until one day

there is music everywhere

and we are the ones being sung.

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reading the book again—

the dogeared pages the same,

the story in them, wholly changed

 

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One Revelation

 

 

 

turning the last page

of our lives, perhaps then

we finally get to read

the glossary to see

what all those symbols meant

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Next Chapter

 

 

 

Mom, she says, Stop crying.

She’s embarrassed for me.

 

I can’t stop. After three hours

of snuggling on the green couch,

 

we are nearing the end of our book,

where the silverback gorilla

 

and the baby elephant say goodbye

to the girl who has helped them

 

leave their cages. It is not

the farewell that makes me weep,

 

though that, too, but the way

that the girl and the gorilla

 

share a passion for art. It’s so good,

I say to my girl between sniffs,

 

it’s so rare and so good to find someone

who really understands you.

 

She looks at me as if she will never

comprehend how such a thing

 

could make someone cry.

My tears land on the end of the chapter,

 

leaving a wet trail I don’t

expect her to follow, not yet,

 

her small hand already

pushing on mine to turn the page.

 

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One Taboo

 

 

 

the book burning

turning the pages of char—

a blaze of orange butterflies

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