Bookmarking

I will tell you how I mark my place,

even though the act may send shivers

along vertebrae and arms,

set fingers of book lovers all atremble,

whether burly-knuckled, talcum sleek, or parchment fine.

Be assured,

I never set a book facedown on furnishings,

wood or otherwise, because

to gnash the toothy bite of words,

blindfold those insights tucked in careful phrasings,

structured paragraphs, or blunt the scent of images

loosed and smoking through the lines

is just plain wrong; never mind

stress placed on the back, about which

I understand.  

I used to fold a top corner tip

to relocate where I'd stopped; and a bottom

tip to mark a place of interest.  If the backside

of the interest page held another stunning moment,

I'd add a second fold, create the start of a paper-pleated fan. 

Sometimes a page would disappear in incremental folds,

the lunacy of Shakespeare's Lear, Iago's darkened heart,

Tao analects to cool my need to understand

the whys or hows of what or who I am.

But I digress. 

These days I pierce pages

where I've left off

with a straight pin. 

I use glass-headed pins from another life

when they held lining, batting, pieced-work tops together

until quilt-stitching bonded layers

into coverlets for beds.

Unlike my fingers, pricked pages

don't sprout drops of red where the pin

goes in

or comes back out.

The paper does not wince.

Although,

sometimes,

when I flip back to a green, blue or yellow pinhead

along the outer margins of pages closed,

and part the fonts from pressing into one another,

I sense a muffled sigh -- as if

an old dog

drowsing

felt a lingered stroke.