The Book of Leah
wants a Les Paul in sunburst mahogany for its cover,
secured with string, nickel-wound. The Book of Leah
is sheafed with mosaics, pencilled on napkins like clovers
pressed smooth between the pages’ cream,
rainbowed in Prismacolor. The Book doesn’t say what you
know, that when Leah climbs out
of the book’s spine, Leah speaks in the third person.
But Leah only laughs when Leah loses herself—
& when she’s gone for weeks, tears. The Book of Leah
is missing its pages, documenting the losses
Leah suffered. If she knew where Leah hid the pages
she would never tell you. Leah would
never trust a book or her mother with secrets. Leah’s eyes—
mother-of-pearl, spalted maple. A cuttlefish,
or a shark, won’t be found that don’t want finding. Leah’s hair—
sandalwood bone. Strands mark each chapter.
To find Leah you must know braille & if you read braille
you must analyze dreams & if you read dreams
you need a stethoscope to hear Leah’s heart murmur.
The book’s back cover: a devil’s mask
with two holes Leah dons before Leah climbs back
inside herself. No one knows it’s Leah when they hear
the first & last words of The Book of Leah sifted through
skin’s linen: Here sways one whose hips smoke,
whose sari changes color. Here flutters & dances one whom
the wind blows through. Here. Find Leah here.