After 13, I seldom read books. I read girls,
And slowly lined them up
On a small shelf where the dust
Grew thicker on some, more than others,
And got lost in them for months on end.
Some were thumbed quickly,
Some were slow to start, but
Were worth the wait
Some were a laugh, but
Not worth a second read.
Most, I regret, were never finished.
And nearly all now forgotten.
Only one didn’t
Make the shelf.
–
She’s still on the table by my bed
Waiting for me to pick her up again tonight
And start reading on from the place,
Dog-eared in my mind, six years ago.
But I don’t.
Instead,
When the bed swallows me before sleep,
I’ll misquote whole chapters of her aloud.
In this naïve fable, the boy’s browsing
Adolescence matures
On the very last page;
Old enough to read her sad eyes
And know what love means, but
Bold enough to hold onto it like a man.
–
Published in ‘New Welsh Review’ 2000