Why I Read

I’ve heard people brag about how little they read,

as if their abstinence is admirable,

as if words could cloud their coolness,

as if books would weigh down their minds.

I joke about my carnivorous diet,

How vegetables are for cows,

And I say I’m well and good,

but I’m not healthy.

and I remember the days when strong was sexy,

still true

and to be studious was hysterical.

So I lied,

I said I didn’t read, didn’t do the homework,

And I skipped class because I don’t remember why,

But I remember falling in love with Eliza Doolittle

And I yelled at Henry Higgins, she’s an angel and you blew it.

I remember practicing my Mr. Darcy voice,

pretended I was a gentleman,

But I’m a Long Islander.

I remember striking an Atlas pose

Flexing my baby fat

Because Edmond Dantes spurred my testosterone,

And I left my blinds up.

My butt blindly waved hello

And my ninth grade crush ran away.

Flannery O’ Connor made me cry,

Tillie Olsen too,

Raymond Carver always,

Jerks.

Books make good weapons,

but better pillows.

Brothers Karamazov bruises.

My old roommate can attest,

We fought about something I can’t remember,

And I grabbed my book and beat him,

But books house dreams and you wouldn’t break your house.

I heard the spine snap as I slapped my friend.

I said sorry to Fyodor,

Curled up in bed and held my breath

When Ivan went insane.

I read because the words tell me I’m ok,

Even if I’m not,

They tell me it’s ok to feel,

But guys aren’t supposed to feel,

Never in public.

The words carry me like a mother and her newborn,

And show me the world in a fresh light,

As if I had been blind all along.