The Book of Love

I twirl your love through my fingers
Like that taffy that we used to make with marshmallows
It is far too sweet and sticks to everything
My mother used to complain about the mess
But the mess is my sanity these last few months

I read your book of love to myself
Even the happy parts make me cry

Your book of love spent too much time
Propping up a leg under someone else’s life
Trying to keep things even
So that the milk wouldn’t spill on the floor

When I found the book I pulled it out
Letting the other life tumble slowly to the ground
Spinning in mad eddies falling down and down and down

I read your book comprehending everything
Even the difficult parts are worth the work

Your book of love is never really closed – is it?

It’s always there like the memory of my father’s garden fence
Or my mother’s trip to Deer Park


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