Sunny skies painted my horizon blue,
much more for rain and clouded
afternoons, in Summer,
until I learned solar waves do
percolate through my heart,
beating against
its cage, freeing me from heavy
thoughts, and careless self-imaging.
There were words written to me in
happy tones, congratulating,
like the long hour had passed,
the minute-hand moved toward the zenith
of its arc, and long, dissonant notes,
chiming from a belltower
that often set me with anxiety,
today are liberating.
I have been walking through the pages
of a well-known novel by Salinger,
soaking in the character he presented,
likeably unlikable, deviant in language,
antisocial, and realizing that
I’m never quite so alive as when I hold
a beaten paper-back between my palms,
and thumbs.
My study is writing, and writers
have infatuated me since I was old
enough to concentrate the words
into images, in the basement of
my grandparent’s house. I remember
being disturbed at an image that
King, one of my Grandma’s favorite
thrillers, painted in my mind
like blood upon the lily hand of
Lady MacBeth, unwashable for
all the running water, a spot on my brain.
I still see the cat, a beloved pet,
bringer of mystery, and magic,
strung up against that sign in my head.
I can still hear the words of the
protagonist
in my head
as if they were
spoken to me.
I like the way that books displace me,
force me to interact, even when I am
scared or heartbroken, and stick in
me, like song-lyrics to a normal person.
It is in these moments, my study,
casually flipping the pages of something
well-known, and beloved, that
I feel loved.
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