And she placed its open face
down on the mustard cushion
before she rose to a magnificent
height that I envied
as I watched her walk away.

I flirted with the Who is she?
story taking shape in my head,
but the more insistent question
was What is she reading?

That being the fingerprint
of a human who loves books,
as she must, I figured, given
the ease with which the spine
splayed and the well-thumbed
pages relaxed, awaiting her return.

If, say, she was reading Woolf,
did that legendary lighthouse
shine into her as it did for me?
Or could she be exploring
a collection of Emily’s poetic
gems, finding precious nuggets
that she’ll gather and carry
with her all her days?

But I project too much.
Honestly, I wouldn’t think less
of her should she be deeply sunk
into a ho-hum mystery or a
sweaty bodice ripper—if they
still rip bodices in romance
novels.

Mostly I like her because she
left her book open to mark
her place—in the pages and
in this space—to signify that
she will reappear and sink
her tall-girl self into
the mustard cushion,
pick up her book
and disappear,

as devout readers do,
into a somewhere that’s
as alive in her mind as she,
fictional character I’ve created,
is in mine.