Bookmark
I knew a girl who used a thread
As a bookmark— a single black thread
Snugged against the inner spine.
How that was enough
To mark her spot
I’ll never know
But she never lost her place,
Always picked up right where
She left off.
From across the room
You couldn’t ever tell how far along
She was in her novels
Until one day she’d show up
With an entirely different book
And you never saw the other one again.
Which doesn't mean she read
Everything through to the end
Only that she was done
With that particular one.
If she ever stepped out for a while
I was afraid to check her progress
Lest I pull the thread from its place
Like a hair on her head
And all the pages loosened
And fell to the floor
Before she was done with it.
Sometimes I find her hairs
Entwined in my fingers after
A night of love together.
The first thing I do is check
The floor for scattered ribs
Then the pillow for her head.
And there she is, still sleeping
With the look on her face of a woman
Who knows exactly where she is.
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