The waking, the being awakened/ the being asked, the replying/ the dutifully waiting, the inwardly leaping in Sue Goyette's Penelope.

Cathedralings of what I know and don't know about Plath, and the deep well beneath that more explicit source, in Sina Queyras's My Ariel.

Lives lived and lived again in Mary di Michele's Bicycle Thieves.

Swords of light in Sue Sinclair's Heaven's Thieves.

Being right there - in the rooms, under the desk, at the hospital, on fresh grass - in Susan Elmslie's Museum of Kindness.

Tracings of earth and root in Phoebe Wang's Admission Requirements.

Funhouse mirror effects (and that title!) in Linda Besner's Feel Happier in 9 Seconds.

Intimacy and elegy in Roo Borson's Cardinal in the Eastern White Cedar.

The thrill of the tremble in Erin Robinsong's Rag Cosmology.

Triage and welcome in Ronna Bloom's The More.

Seeds and branches in Gillian Sze's Panicle.

Still in its wrapper, but not for long, Anne Carson's Float.

The books I've read and carry with me as cell nourishment.

And the many, many, books I haven't read yet but hope to, for there is light I need in all of them.

Perhaps this little poembot from Book*hug may stand in for those:

wish I could read everything
a slip on the sidewalk suggests leaves not pre-bagged
Perhaps it is the words that say us
wish I could read everything
ringed with blood like the crowns
Error is character
this my almost white dawn
wish I could read everything