the books line up. the books like to
link. the books make a book necklace,
a book choker. the books don’t mean
to strangle. but there is a certain slant
to their giving. it asks. the books do not
not demand. the strange thing is when
the books strongly suggest I attend to
what they’re laying down, I tend to turn
off, away. in this way, the books are like
the men I’ve never liked, the ones who–
like the books–seem always waiting
for me to learn enough to love them.
I learn to leave the books alone. others
(looked for, found) like loving me without
the strangling. put down your porn.
I’ve been trying to write this poem my whole life!
A certain slant to their giving. Indeed indeed!
Wow it’s like a twisted villanelle with a gut-punch ending!