Oliver de la Paz > Quotes

“The color of the moon bleached the tops of trees
and you left a book on the table, face down
with its spine reaching for air. I thought
the book might hate you for that. With my pre-dawn coffee
and mouth full of sleep syllables I whistled the title,
held the book in my arms like something would reach for it
and carry it to another galaxy.
I would go on preaching to windows
about how the screens needed replacing, or
how the dust motes settle the shelves. You were in agony
yet you would not speak about things such as age
and the body gestures that come to claim your mornings.
Neck-sure, arm-sure, I think about you and your book
coming to some agreement . . . some place of rest.
Though the mica glittered like stars . . . though you breathed
circles in the dark of your skin, you entered
a slow recessional. It was a kind of starvation,
knowing the dawn would come with its larks
and cars stuttering past your house. You in your bed
shut tight against the tide of sound refusing to believe
that the book held your world in such simple connotations.”
― Oliver de la Paz, Furious Lullaby