sometimesihatemycat

There lies a book
At the bottom of the stairs
I see it while I sit
Tangible and still
Aware
I half expect it will open
On its own and bend
Itself backward over its spine
A literary Slinky in rewind
Up the stairs crawling
Cover over cover
End over pages end
Against all laws
Of nature nurture nothing
Until it nestles itself
In my lap
I cannot tell
If it is yet begun
But the ending bell
It has not rung
So
I
Will
Not
Look
Only feel its body
Heavy against my thighs
Horror moving up my spine
What does it want
From me a story
A reader a writer a recycler
A soul to fill itself full
To tip me towards its starting place
Original
To become ours
A partner for the falling
Limbs and contents mingling
In a blur of page and person
Until we hit the bottom
Ending both with crooked spines
A heap of unknown bent
Paper cut and crumpled
All undone but finally
Resting
As it was
First begun

— A.R.

I Sat at the Top of the Stairs by Julia Kay

Posted in Abuse, Body, Death, Identity, Meditation, Poetry, Whimsy, Writing
Tags: Author, Book, Courage, Falling, Fear, Imagination, meditation, poetry, Writer, Writing, Writing Process