Now that I sleep alone
I lie down in a bed of books –
mysteries of Pargeter and Hillerman,
bridge hands, Newsweek,
the Portuguese Bible I stole in Lisbon.
The door of the public library
opens on my childhood,
when those scruffy bindings
filled my arms with joy.
Today I was looking for an intonation,
someone to talk to in the night.
So many sad, narrow books of poetry
and not one beckoned
until you, teenager on drugs
in a cemetery, and I brought you home.
Your lines pull me into your world,
Lorna, Lorna Dee Cervantes.
My hand trembles, picking peaches
in your poem where the two hummingbirds
are stuck together.
On your card a solitary withdrawal.
Only one person took you out
before me, now, eight years later.
Come to my bed of words.
I feel like a bridegroom.