Something about the body, I tell her,
something about the body worn
like missing paint on storm cellar doors.
Something about the savvy of hands
that know many ways to (mis)handle books,
but having bent many and, displeased with their shapes,
know Now that it is best to keep
one hand cradling the spine
while the other softly divides
pages.

“Ew”, she says
and I laugh because

at the ends of these nights
the question always comes
not long
after
I

don’t.

And I feel many things
fore’n’after readings,

but “ew”
about sums it all
up.