Imagine being buried without books;
a situation making haunting justifiable.
Everywhere: books. Books written after your death,
books written before that you neglected to read-
all their pages unturnable, their riches kept from you.
Living readers, can you feel them?
Peering over your shoulder jealously as you squint in darkened libraries,
as you huddle under covers hugging the words close
and drift towards the Jealous Ones in sleep,
as you lazily scan pages in waiting rooms and the back seat of cars.
If you're wondering, it's why at night,
while locking doors and dimming lights,
I leave books open on the stairs, the table.
It's why in sympathy with the Damned
I spend my lunch hour reading in the graveyard.
Back against tree, gold leaves hissing as they hit the earth,
though I can't quite see them, I can feel them
hovering around me,
pushing each other out of the way like children-
the Dead, bereft readers who try to read my book.
Sometimes, on rare, quiet days when the clouds drift overhead,
my heart breaking under the beautiful weight of the words,
I lower my voice and read aloud
so that all the Wordless Ones may partake, and for a time
(God forgive me.)
via McCarty Musings