Bookworms~ Carly Breault
We love books. We love the way they make us feel intelligent. We love
how they’re arranged in bookstores promising praise perched on pillars of persuading
We love their inner bodies manipulating metaphors in our minds of what is real
and make-believe. We love
how they feel. Skin-smooth covers recall
pre-marital sex before our skin wrinkled and wilted with age and abandon. We love the way
cocked, like open doors taking us in. Shutting and locking the door behind.
Oh yes, we love books.
Here’s what we do with books. We buy them just
when they’re ripe and storefront.
We imagine ourselves becoming smarter worldlier worthier as we carry them to the car.
We stack them on our bedsides and begin
staring at their pages
entering their evanescent empires of escape
occupying the silence and stillness of the room.
Each book is acknowledged, if not wholly understood
thrown out into the mountain of others we forgot we had.
We’ve already bought more.