I.
The truth is
We’re all born with a natural speed
And mine is a bit
Overclocked. I’ve always been like this.
When I was a kid
My aunt tried to tell me
To go to bed with a book to fall asleep.
Laughed when I took two.
Stopped laughing when I came padding out
In little stocking feet
In need of more.
There’s room for words in here.
II.
The truth is
I don’t like the way I feel
When I scroll on my phone: jittery.
Anxious. It’s hard to say this
Without sounding like I’m claiming a virtue
I’m not. I just don’t like
The fidgety feeling. Also
I was born with more than my share
Of executive function.
I brought enough for the whole class.
So it’s easier for me to do
What I mean to do. To find my intention.
III.
The truth is
I was probably bitten in infancy
By a radioactive bookworm,
Though there is no record of this.
IV.
The truth is
I like to read. Reading is what I like best.
I squeeze it in
When I can. Stir the soup. Read a little.
Fold the laundry. Read a little.
Do my work. Read a little.
Call my mom. Read a little.
Also words are my job, so sometimes
This looks like:
Read a little. Read a little.
V.
The truth is
Last month I sat by my grandmother’s bed
While she died. And I read.
I read in the hospital. I read in hospice.
For most of it
She no longer wanted to talk
Rarely asked for water
So I read.
Mystery novel after mystery novel
Justice following justice
Until her end. Books sustained me
While I tried to let go
Of sustaining her.
Books were not her refuge
But because she embraced me,
She embraced them being mine.
I would rather mourn
With Tennyson than without
With Dylan Thomas than without.
I hated last month
But I got through it with books.
That’s how.
(Periodically someone asks me. This was today’s answer.)