ManicDDaily

Between the Hard Covers (Or In This Case Many Worn Paper Backs)
(To Sir Terry Pratchett)

There was a time
in which kisses were not mine.
except for that sweet kind given
by children,
where my lips pressing back closed close as a shush
in order to hush
the fervor,
to not pass on, as if contagious,
pain.

And on those Fridays nights,
which I knew in advance would be lone,
and which in the final slant of the week
were nearly unbearable,
I’d stop at a book shop just a block
from my office–each time as if
by chance–just a block too
from the train, and pick
you up.

Your pages would hold me
even before I left the store, taking both
my hands.

You would fully enfold me
by the time we reached the sidewalk
and would keep me under your covers
though the subway, paying no mind
to the couples with their bangs already bed-tousled, 
the dingy abandon
of the plastic lozenge seats.

You would carry me
across the cobbled night
of the West Village
as smoothly as a turtle
might carry a world,
a turtle also balancing
four elephants–for I read
as I walked, and I did not look out
for potholes, tree pits,
New Jerseyites swerving in search
of a parking place–

And my heart
heartened,
and my lips opened,
for lips have to open
to laugh–I read you even
in the bath–
I read and read
and when I finished,
I started in
again.

***********************************

It is with true heartbreak that I write of the death of Sir Terry Pratchett, British fantasy writer and satirist.  I cannot overstate the gifts that Sir Terry has given me for the last twenty years or so, since he became my favorite writer.

I am linking this poem to the Real Toads prompt “out of standard” by Izzy Gruye, which has to do with failed kisses.   (At first, it seemed an odd prompt to put with Pratchett–then I realized that it made exact sense in my case.)

I cannot thank him enough.

PS – my understanding is that the above is a stock photo of Pratchett available for free use–no copyright infringement intended.