She’s often said she knew that I could read
when I read panel trucks and posted signs,
could recognize the letters and all kinds
of other symbols. I had books to feed
my curiosity at three, but need
to learn more led to other, secret finds,
some blurry magazines with lurid lines
of innuendo (I know now) I freed
from shelves I barely reached or might have found
between a couch’s cushions, magazines
from drug stores where, a teen, I’d later browse
for science fiction paperbacks, the round
rack limited to sentimental scenes
like cheap romances stacked up in my house.
