To climb into a book

By Joan Mazza

and snuggle between its pages,
warmed by strangers
I learn to love.
To enter another world,
another life that pinches
or pets, more vivid
than my everyday life
of almonds and bread.

I wonder why books are more
exciting than conversations
at the hardware store with men
carrying rolls of screening
and gallons of paint. Better
than scraps overheard
at the diner, where people
read newspapers or eat
together in silence.

Why do I dream
about imaginary people,
worry about their safety
on invented planets
persecuted by a ruling class
without compassion?

When I close the book,
sad story over, I mourn
for them. Sometimes,
I think of them years later,
wonder if they survived
the aftermath. Did they
love again?

Do they miss me?
I wonder if,
like me, crisis over,
their lives limp on,
not much to tell,
at least not in public.

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Categories: Issue 5, Poetry | Leave a comment

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