The Living Book and Preconception, poems published by Lisa Zaran

You turn the book
over and over, caress
the cover as if
it were matted in the skin
of a lover.

You touch the spine
with two fingers to see
if it shivers.

You turn the page,
plant your nose
in the crevice and inhale.

You lose yourself
in a pocket of words
you always felt

but couldn't say
yourself.
You scribble your thoughts

in margins, dogear corners.
You fight in the battle
against aging and stupidity.

The words surround you
like a multiplication of wives.
Their thoughts wet,

their figures open.

Nearly a century ago
my deepest passion
was born.

Then raised to a shape
I could conform to.

At first, I was unsure.
Born hungry, I responded.
Raised from sleep, I awoke.

For years the harmonies pushed
at my senses, uprooting all
I'd learned from my parents.

With a compelling eye,
my passion watched me.
Wherever I went, it followed.

In my twenty-second year
it grew forward, like a blue shadow,
impossible to ignore.

I've yet to touch it.
Though it staggers within reach.
I married it the instant

it appeared to me in a dream.