Bookish

Bookish

If a woman could write herself,

form herself of crafted words,

make of herself a golem

of grammar and syntax,

metaphor and metonymy;

if she could shape herself

into silent, still, soliloquy;

her cunning sharp and carved of consonance;

her curves soft, sculpted so from sibilance;

her emotions openly evoked in assonance,

if a woman could make herself

into such a thing,

oh, what a book you’d be.

And what a man could do with such a book,

her pages laid out before him.

He might take in her scent

or run a finger down her spine

treasuring the tingle of the title

beneath a cartographer’s wandering fingertips.

For certain he would read her,

once, twice, and then again

til she was as worn from care as he, yet free

from careless dog eared marks

or any annotations desperate to define her.

He’s the kind of man

who remembers where all his favorite parts are

but would read every page again

just to laugh once more at a piece of witty banter,

the same place he’s laughed at

a thousand times before.

If a woman could write herself,

form herself of crafted words,

if a woman could make herself

into such a thing,

oh, what a book you’d be.