Books

By Sara King

Don't say you'd mourn my passing.
You a writer, and a liar.
Writers are the worst of liars---
their audience has no face,
so they don't have to smile,
don't have to weep,
don't even pretend to love.


I know you will forget me
while I sleep with the worms.
You have forgotten me already
and I am breathing still,
here in the wet leaves and wind,
you, hiding somewhere in the city,
behind Dostoyevsky and cognac.


If only I were a book,
then maybe you would read my body---
run your eyes right to left
over my flesh,
bury your face
in the pages of my breasts.


But I am only a bookmark---
a place to rest
when you are reluctantly tangled,
you,
a voracious reader,
me,
a vicarious lover.