Imagine a woman

begins to read her own life

from the beginning, and finds

that much is missing, not to be replaced.

Imagine she turns pages over,

looking for the mother, the father

who would nurture and nourish

the infant the woman had been.

Imagine the woman does not turn

away from her story, but reads on,

and when she cries, imagine

the way she holds herself

in her own arms

gently.

Imagine a woman with a book

of her own life

that has no appendix, no code

to connect this wound

to that scar, that soreness

to this ease. And the woman

does not stop reading.

She places a finger lightly on each black shape

along the line, determined to feel

the hardest angle, the sharpest

point at each sentence’s end.

Imagine the woman presses harder,

then looks at her fingertips

imprinted with every true word.

Imagine the woman takes the book

in both hands,

sets it firmly aside, then

taking ink and pen in hand,

she opens a fresh notebook,

and imagines a woman

who knows what words

are needed to make the first book

into a song.