By: Savanny Savath, Staff Writer

“And now, Sylvia, you again with death again, that ride home…”

–Anne Sexton, “Sylvia’s Death”

We picked up chairs to an empty corner

of the bookstore, between the sheets

of books about home repairs and relationships.

You talked about Amsterdam and stared

at my boots. I listened to the winds of a city on

your soft lisp, and when you smiled, I spied

the slight cut between your two front teeth.

You denied it and covered your mouth before

I looked away, wanting to touch your folded hands.

How does it feel? I asked.

You glanced up and your gilded necklace

swung to the right, in the light. I waited.

It hasn’t hit me yet, you breathed out

but not enough to reach me yet

because there wasn’t a map,

no instructions here for us.

We walked to the middle of the store and you

offered your copy of The Bell Jar like a hand

on our first date, open and fragile. You read,

I am,

 I am,

 I am

and I believed you. You stayed with me

for two hours until I walked you to your car

and taught you how to hug me. I sat in the café

of Barnes & Noble and remembered

we picked up chairs to an empty corner

of the bookstore and you said,

There’s a reason I picked this spot.