Page Twelve

My friend texted asking for recommendations

and I held the phone.

Eventually I sent a title.

Then I checked the date I'd bought it.

2017.

She replied: throwback, laughing face.

Fair.

I looked at the nightstand.

Four books, eighteen months, none of them

past page twelve—

not twelve as a metaphor, just twelve,

the actual page where I put it face-down

and put something on top of it

and then somehow it was this year.

Two of the four still have the receipts inside.

Not bookmarks. Receipts.

Tucked in the front cover like someone

slid a sympathy card under the door and left.

The date is printed right there.

Proof of the moment I meant to.

I don't know when I stopped.

That's the thing—

not that I stopped but that I can't

locate the week, can't say here,

this was the last time I read

because I wanted to know

what happened next.

The receipts are still in there.

I haven't moved them.