I often wondered what it is I liked
if someone stayed long enough to notice
and wanted to surprise me with a gift
what would they choose
what would they think belongs in my world
what would they get
I think people know me in pieces
She laughs “most times she laughs”
She’s quiet “most times she’s quiet”
She talks “most times she’s talkative…but only when it’s safe”
She’s hurting “most times she hides behind her written words”
So my friend
she bought me a notebook
she bought me a poetry book
and he
afraid to box me into a single choice
gave me a gift card
a book gift card
so I bought more books
Such perfect gifts I think
their knowing
showed me what I couldn’t name
Stories fill me up
Books give me joy
and the notebook
she trusted me to fill it with words
It’s hard to explain the joy that comes
from a written world
the way a thought can travel
across countries across years
across death itself
and still reach you in the exact same way
to meet yourself in words
in words that hold
what your mouth cannot bear to speak
To read is to return to where I belong
So the books felt in my presence
like home
PIECESBYRUTH 