Pinned like a butterfly in these pages—
Blue lines peel from the sharp white edges
to bind your wrists, your ankles. Your struggle
blurs ink with sweat, staining us both.
Holding you fast every morning—
a silent meditation of paper and flesh.
In the fading light of the day I itch to crumple
these tear-stained pages and scream.
Instead, I draw new word portraits of your eyes—
staring into them until your memory blinks,
lick my pen to keep the blood flowing, feel
your firm grip and the rhythm of your breath,
To run my fingers between your pages—
flesh seeking warmth and moisture.
The tap tap tapping of memory. Then sleep and
dreams of loosening blue bonds, setting you free.
I should and yet I don't, I must and yet I can't—
but close the cover and hold you against my chest.
For every morning, holding you fast,
I can feel you struggling against my breast.
Every afternoon, from the distant shelf—
I listen to your muffled singing.
—Excerpt from "Grimoire" by Keith Woo, as it appears in "The Heavy Work of Vanishing: The Collected Poetry of Keith Woo," edited by Pi'ilani Kilani, page 203.