Amy Gerstler

Dear Reader

Through what precinct of life's forest are you hiking at this moment? 
Are you kicking up leaf litter or stabbed by brambles? 
Of what stuff are you made? Gossamer or chain mail? 
Are you, as reputed, marvelously empty? Or invisibly ever- present, 
even as this missive is typed? Have you been to Easter Island? Yes? 
Then I'm jealous. Do you use a tongue depressor as bookmark? 
Are you reading this at an indecent hour by flashlight? 
Plenty of scholarly ink has been spilt praising readers like yourself, 
who risk radical dismantling, or being unmasked, by rappelling 
deep into sentences. Your trigger warnings could be triggered every 
second, yet you forge on, mystic syllables detonating in your head, 
the metal-edged smell of monsoon-downpour on hot asphalt 
raising steam in your imagination. You hold out for the phrase 
with which the soul resonates, am I right? Reading, you're seized 
by tingly feelings, a rustling in the brain, winds that tickle your scalp, 
bubbles erupting from a blow hole at the back of your neck. 
You forget the breathy woman talking softly on TV across the lobby 
(via TiVo you've saved her for later.) Birds outside are cracking jokes 
and cackling. Reader, smile to yourself, rock the cradle, kiss 
everyone you wish to kiss, and please keep reading. It beats 
fielding threatening phone calls for $15 an hour which is what 
yours truly is meant to be doing right now, instead of speculating 

on the strange and happy manifestations of, you, dear reader, you.