Association Copy

Lynda Hull Maybe you sold it to buy junk. Though I like to think not. And I don't want to think you used the money for food or rent or anything obligatory, practical. A pair of boots, perhaps. Thigh high burgandy boots with gold laces. Something crucial as lilies. Mostly, I want to believe you held onto the book, that your fingers brailed those pages' inky veins even in your final weeks. I want to believe words can be that important in the end. Who can help the heart, which is grand and full of gestures? I had been on my way out. He was rearranging his bookshelves when, in an approximation of tenderness, he handed me, like the last of the sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving, like a thing he wanted but was willing to share, the rediscovered book— he'd bought it years ago in a used bookstore in Chicago. Levine's poems, with your signature inside. That whole year I spent loving him, something splendid as lemons, sour and bright and leading my tongue toward new language, was on the shelf. These weren't your own poems, autographed, a stranger's souvenir—we'd spent vain months leafing through New York stacks for your out-of-print collections—but you'd cared about this book, or cared enough to claim it, your name looped across the title page as if to say,Please. This is mine, This book is mine. Though you sold it. Or someone else did when you died. We make habits out of words. I grew accustomed to his, the way they spooned me into sleep so many times. Now I am sleepless and alone another night. What would you give for one more night alone? No booze. No drugs. Just that hunger and those words. He gave me The Names of the Lost. Need comes down hard on a body. What else was sold? What else—do you know?—did we lose