A Shrill Call
At her side, neither white nor heavy gold,
But a lightening, as if the weight of matter lifted.
It penetrated the desk. Her body turned in the chair.
It rested on the softness around her cheek bone,
Filtered down to the open pages of the book in her hands.
She was about to get up, holding the book open,
One leg behind her, the other just about to take her weight.
The sofa seemed inviting in its cushioned browns.
No, her nearly suspended buttocks sank back into the chair.
She swiveled and lay the book on the desk,
The light now missing her cheek, brightening a few strands of hair.
Look away, look away from consideration to convention.
Relax your intent, sweet reader.
The ear hears what words there have not yet sounded.
In the silence of chattering cadences,
To steady the body of thought.
Her gaze never separated from the text, now shadowed.
The whistle on the tea kettle in the next room let out
A shrill call. She did not move at once. Her eye shifted
From the broad left hand page to the top
At right, her palms suspended, fingertips moist on dry paper,
Arms outstretched on either side of the thick layer of pages,
Adoring the characters of print, the petals of idea.
Still the whistle sounded. She sighed, let down
Her arms to her sides, walked with the silence that turns pages,
Stood into the mist escaping from the kettle,
Cheeks cleansed of oils like glue from a stamp,
A stamp from an envelope, a letter from a page.
She couldn’t focus any way, with the whistle calling.
Pouring a cup of tea, she returned to the desk
But by then the sun stood behind a tree
Read not by its rings but in the ability of its page
To hold type, wed to words, seed grown fertile and abstract,
Its photosynthesis a matter of mind.
But a lightening, as if the weight of matter lifted.
It penetrated the desk. Her body turned in the chair.
It rested on the softness around her cheek bone,
Filtered down to the open pages of the book in her hands.
She was about to get up, holding the book open,
One leg behind her, the other just about to take her weight.
The sofa seemed inviting in its cushioned browns.
No, her nearly suspended buttocks sank back into the chair.
She swiveled and lay the book on the desk,
The light now missing her cheek, brightening a few strands of hair.
Look away, look away from consideration to convention.
Relax your intent, sweet reader.
The ear hears what words there have not yet sounded.
In the silence of chattering cadences,
To steady the body of thought.
Her gaze never separated from the text, now shadowed.
The whistle on the tea kettle in the next room let out
A shrill call. She did not move at once. Her eye shifted
From the broad left hand page to the top
At right, her palms suspended, fingertips moist on dry paper,
Arms outstretched on either side of the thick layer of pages,
Adoring the characters of print, the petals of idea.
Still the whistle sounded. She sighed, let down
Her arms to her sides, walked with the silence that turns pages,
Stood into the mist escaping from the kettle,
Cheeks cleansed of oils like glue from a stamp,
A stamp from an envelope, a letter from a page.
She couldn’t focus any way, with the whistle calling.
Pouring a cup of tea, she returned to the desk
But by then the sun stood behind a tree
Read not by its rings but in the ability of its page
To hold type, wed to words, seed grown fertile and abstract,
Its photosynthesis a matter of mind.
Page(s) 34
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