Tell me how many words will be enough,
how many books to hold them, how many shelves
to hold the books, and houses for them all.
How many stories, tell me how many selves
to cram into my own to understand
at last what I must do, Lord, to be saved,
to rise again—or better, not to fall.
Tell me the words—I’ll carve them on my hand,
trace them from the books I’ve hoarded, craved,
onto my skin to make me whole again,
to make this fractured, shattered self all whole,
and purify my heart, my mind, my soul
and make me worthy, as I’ve never been.
Tell me the words.
The only word is love.
A Bouquiniste in Paris selling secondhand and antiquarian books By Benh LIEU SONG – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2929515
Kate Bluett 