The Same Page

I opened it yesterday and I knew

exactly where I would stop.

Page forty-seven. Same page.

Same sentence in the middle of

something the author was trying to say

that I couldn't keep holding onto.

The spine is cracked there now

from being opened and closed,

opened and closed, the bookmark

sliding out and being replaced,

the same journey over and over,

beginning to page forty-seven

and no further.

The rest of the book exists.

I know there are pages beyond this,

stories that continue, endings

that probably matter, but I can't

reach them. Can't get past the place

where my attention stops. Can't

make my eyes keep moving when

everything in me wants to set it down

and do something else, anything else,

something that doesn't require

this kind of reaching.

I pick it up again today. Same ritual.

Open to the beginning. Read the words

I've already read four times. Feel the

familiar rhythm of it, the way

the sentences move, the way the character

is about to do something I remember

they're about to do. And then page forty-seven

arrives like a stop sign and I know

I'm done. I know I'm going to close it

and put it on the shelf and leave it

for another day, another failed attempt,

another cracked spine and another

moment of admitting I can't finish

anything I start. That the spine

is proof of this. That the bookmark

is proof. That the book itself is proof

of the kind of person I am,

the kind who starts and stops

and starts again

and never makes it through.