Reading the Virgin
First, I select
with discerning eye
the one I want
to touch
to caress
to hold in my hand
embrace
to pet and let
my eyes undress.
My fingers open
her to the crease -
careful not to bend
too far.
I loosen her hold:
her inner secrets
spill into my hands.
Her softness
and the unyielding
glue of her strength
too easily broken,
fragile.
It's terribly exciting.
I lick my lips,
shiver under the
pressure of holding
myself in check;
then slip my fingers
between her pages,
bend them,
smooth them down,
nearly cracking
her back
to enter her
and devour the story
she holds
within her
unspoken depths.
I greedily spread
whole sections
to break her in,
making her part
of me,
taking in her scent
her texture
the pristine white.
She will not resist so much,
relinquishing her paper softness -
yielding to me.
And when I
reluctantly
close her up again,
her pliable folds will
never go back
to the vacuum-tight hold.
She will never be new again.
(ahhhh....I love books.)
(Happy Christmas.)
I loved the poem.
ReplyDeleteThere's nothing like the 'new book' smell, is there? Yes, the book might not look lovely and pristine once you riffle through it, but imagine all of the wonders that lie hidden in the type of its freshly parted pages...