When my mother wasn't looking,

I’d open the pages and find the one 

with Lowly the Worm holding that 

cupcake, and I’d apply pink tongue 

to pink cupcake. You’d think I’d have 

been disappointed, but, deep within, 

I located the flavor of strawberries, 

and maybe a hint of lemon, topped with 

whirls of cream. 

I did it one more time, though I was

much older, because on the page 

Meg Murry knew something I knew: 

nothing outside her matched 

the life exploding inside her. 

When she realized this, 

did her gut lurch like mine did, and 

did her heart crumple like mine did? 

I needed communion with Meg— 

I had to ask her how she knew, and 

how else can you cross over and 

get your communion? 

I knew my tongue could bridge 

the chasm, and that time, I tasted 

apples and light. 

In college, my professor instructed us 

to climb in, hunker down—then advance! 

advance outward! and watch the words

crack and reveal their betrayal and gore, 

their coagulated evidence of the writer’s 

background and prejudice oozing onto 

the page. He warned us, don’t be fooled, 

take your axe, break it all apart and—a-ha! 

There is no meaning anywhere. 

I wept for all he wished to extinguish, 

and I refused to buy his book, because 

I bet if I put my tongue on it, it would 

taste like paper.