My Love’s Book
She lays her book on the desk, open to her current page,
while with one eye and one hand, she does this
or that irrelevant thing on her computer.
I must correct one error here, one misconception
that may be created by the title:
it’s not one book, it’s many books,
sat snugly on the shelf (in alphabetical order by author),
a random pile (again on the shelf) of
a dozen books to which she will turn her attention “soon”,
and three of four more battered paperbacks, on the desk,
rightly ready at her left hand, that she would like
to be reading now, if she had several heads
with several eyes and several brains
with which to read them all, at the same time.
—I must add here that she’s currently grieving
the delayed arrival of a newly ordered book—
With these tools of a self-controlled mind,
she travels to far and mysterious places where
mysterious cultures ennoble or degrade mysterious people,
hunts supernatural criminals with dysfunctional wizards
or, her favourite things, she rides dragons
or goes on adventurous quests with elves.
First thing in the morning these characters
will wake her up so they can share her
lively dreams and visions and, last thing at night
with her head lain softly on her pillow, and her body
tucked under her soft blanket, they lull her to sleep.
My love, she eats books, makes love to books,
day and night, she’d marry her books
if they weren’t so free and easy with their love.
She even does my long curly hair like
Redlance, one of her favourite characters
from one of her favourite series of books,
I suspect just so she can talk with him,
eat with him, and even
make love with him,
from time to time.
