You Told Me I Was
a Closed Book
ana c.h. silva
48
Let me go, then.
Put me in the sea.
I’ll turn its exact color
the grey of that moment
greenish brown as the sun first comes up
when plant parts and tiny animals
color the water and salt.
I want to find the shape
and beat of the waves.
The water will be cold enough
I won’t dissolve.
Sun through black lettering
on both sides of pale sheets.
A soft layer of water sits
between each page, buttressing
no rips against the toss of the waves.
On a certain day the string of my binding will be yanked out by a fish
pulled clean and eaten
my pages will go the radius of a circle.
Each by themselves
learn when to
duck below a rough one
slide right or left as needed
or float still under full sun.
You might find a wet sheet someday
dripping on the warm dryness of your hand
But put me back.