Not a compliment, certainly not
when delivered by sneering boys
walking past me, tucked into
a shaded playground corner,
absorbed in that moment’s book,
the two of us safely away from
flung balls and kids’ hubbub—

a word they wouldn’t have known
if a teacher hadn’t used it about me,
the bookworm chomping through pages,
digesting the sustenance of words,
wrapping myself in a cocoon
of my own making, storing up
fuel for a lifetime,

with no idea that I’d one day
shine when I emerged,
unfurling my writerly wings,
flapping them gently as they dried
in the sun, then—surprise!—
lifting my new self into mere air,
having no idea where all
those words would take me.