Today's poem is by Benjamin S. Grossberg

When You Read a Novel the Dead Would Like
        Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

They are behind you as you sit up against
the armrest of the couch, their chin resting
on your shoulder. They get annoyed
when you turn pages too slowly, or—
with a touch so gentle as to be unfeelable—
put two fingers on the back of your hand
to pause you when you try to turn
too fast. No, not there, they think, not
just as Lily steps into the house of her
Oldsame, to see that the house is a ruin,
to smell the sugar-tar opium pouring out
from the father's den. But yes, there:
you put the book down, and the dead
straighten, arching their backs stiffly forward,
though it does not hurt; they feel no pain
from bending to read too long. In fact,
they could stand like that forever, staying
with you as you finish one book and
reach, without pausing, for another—
if it's a book they would like. But the sun
is up now. Somehow, the two AM
you woke into has become morning,
and it is time to wash and dress. The dead
will retreat back into the plaster walls,
which are cold because it's a cold
morning. If you put your palm flat on
an exterior wall, you can feel the pressure
of December pushing back at you.
But the dead will rejoin you later, just
before bed, when you pick the novel back up.
It will be a long day for them, too, held there
like a chill in the wall. They, too,
are eager to know what happens next.

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Copyright © 2023 Benjamin S. Grossberg All rights reserved
from Boulevard
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission