The Posture of Love

by, Heather Keyser

In a classroom 

made of a tent 

reminiscent of revivals, 

our teacher asked, 

“Who here has been 


by books?”

We raised our hands.

*            *            *

I am bookish.

True enough.

I lean forward

as I trip





a book to my chest


folding myself lightly

over the clipped pages,



which seems like

an oxymoron—

to hunch gracefully—

but it’s not,

when you think

of what I’m holding.

It’s not quite a song —

the birds can’t hear it—

but it can make your cheeks flush

and your breath quicken,

And/or it can make you

go and call your mother

on the telephone.

And/or it can bring you up



making you feel as if

your body’s organs

are stinging each other.

But a book doesn’t impose—

it is silent and waiting,

and you can dip

into its woodsy pages

at will, and close them up and shelve

them when you need to,

and can you really say that about

a song?

My whole long body curves

around this dry treasure like a

subtle “C,”

and my skirts

brush the dirt

as I traipse forward,

allowing my heart—

beating against this hard

bound book—

to lead me

where it will,


into the sky

if it wants.

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