My little book of poetry 

Seems to fall open

Every time

To a certain pivotal line,

That all at once,

Fascinates me,

And scares me half to death.

It's like a wreck on the freeway

That you don't want to see,

But can't look away, either.

And today when the pages flew open,

I see that one hair has fallen off my head 

And has pressed itself

Between these very pages.

It has curled around the words

Like a baby hand

That latches on

To anything,

And hopes that it will at least rattle.

I have grasped on to you this way.

I'm curling myself up

In the very crux of your meaning.

And all this may be a beautiful tragedy

In the making.

I can't stand to see it,

Yet I dare not look away.

-jenn