for reader,

some people nimble
on flyleafs like
stale potato chips or
waltz with their tongues
savoring the forward but
i am a devourer of
dedication pages--
i want to know what the story
would be like if we left
off there-- in
the lips of an author
attempting to leave their words
for someone-- so many books
left to mother's without
names-- let's all write
a book for our mothers & 
leave it on her door step--
& maybe she'll never read
past her dedication page or
maybe she'll read the whole
thing & feel like it didn't
have an ending--
if i open the book & only read
the dedication maybe i'm
a different type of reader 
sifting for a life at either 
end of an novel--
a brief shout of a human who 
tattooed their mouths into
pages-- kiss
me like you would or mother--
i become frantic--
tearing through all my favorite
books to find out who they're for--
stuffing crinkled pages into 
my mouth--
for eugene-- for ester--
for my brother-- for ted for
jeanne & art &
the front steps of my house
that have become my jaw--
for the porch in the summer
leaking with rain-- for mornings
without power in the great snow
storm-- for dry june thunder--
for wet grass turning into
an ocean-- for the windowsill
in the girl's bathroom on
the second floor of the high school
that still hold our worries--
& i sit on the floor
of my bedroom in a mess of books 
stripped of their dedication pages--
mouth full of someones
& i bend over to pull them all
out again--
no one is vast enough to 
hold so many names--
after i get them all
out of my throat their
names are still printed on
my tongue-- i hold up a napkin
that is also the first page
of a book i'm still writing--
i kiss it & it
says
for reader,
this is all for you--
for eugene-- for ester--
for my brother-- for ted for
jeanne & art &
the front steps of my house
that have become my jaw--
for the porch in the summer
leaking with rain-- for mornings
without power in the great snow
storm-- for dry june thunder--
for wet grass turning into
an ocean-- for the windowsill
in the girl's bathroom on
the second floor of the high school
that still hold our worries--
for reader,
for everyone who will
ever open a book-- peel out
the dedication page 
& thrust it to the back of their
own throat like a promise 
to read deeper--