To be transported back to childhood
has never been my wish. It didn’t work
for me. I didn’t play. I yearned. I read.
Adulting, I forgot what languid meant,
but aging brings it back. This year, I lurk
in bed with favorite books. A Wrinkle, sent
to me at ten when Daddy left. I bawled
with Meg, who’d lost her father to a mission
as secret as my dad’s—he’d gone to prison.
I read it in a day back then, and then,
again, again, again. Tonight, I shut
the book, amazed at how my brain recalled
each sentence, how I kept its center close,
believing still that love has mattered most.
Michele Leavitt, a poet and essayist, is also a high school dropout, hepatitis C survivor, adoptee, and former trial attorney. Her essays appear in venues including The Rumpus, Guernica, Catapult, and The Sycamore Review. Recent poems can be found in Lunch Ticket, Poet Lore, North American Review, Stirring, and Baltimore Review.