Page 9 - Horizon 17-18

Horizon 2017
A Letter from My Favorite Book
I can be small.
I am the greatest time traveller.
I can be soft or sturdy,
Thick or thin.
I am smooth paper.
I am not perfect:
I have frayed edges,
Scuffed corners,
Torn pages,
And a broken back.
I smell of spilled coffee
And ink.
I am highlighted,
And dogged-eared.
Some write in my margins.
I carry notes and letters
Of love and goodbyes
And Happy Birthdays
And Congratulations
And get-well-soons.
I move with you,
Sit with you, Cry
With you.
I possess many voices:
Some lyrical, some timid,
Some angry, some inspiring.
I touch many hearts.
I am held, stroked,
And hugged tight against
Nervous frames.
Sometimes, however,
I am thrown, dropped,
Or cracked open.
I lie on your chest,
Rising and falling with your
Sleeping breaths.
I carry a million words, yet
I have no weight.
I may seem fragile, but I am
Strong and durable.
I see all of your days stretched
Before you.
I am there for the dark days,
The introspective days,
And even the lovely days,
I can stand the test of time
Until your last day takes you.
And when that day comes,
I will stay on your shelf
And remember the wonderful
Years where I was yours.
I will remember what it meant to be loved by you.
It equals you.
Forgiven
Unforgiving sun,
Revealing brightness searing a pair of spiritless eyes.
Men in long robes, tasseled.
Shaking, sobbing, choking on the impure air,
Exhausted, she is dragged like carrion to the vultures.
ln yaerif ‘ahad. No one will know.
A lying thought.
A soothing balm for one seeking love in the arms of a man forbidden her. Forceful hands.
A rough fall.
Face corrupted with scorching dust.
The men calling for punishment, for blood.
Zania! Adulteress!
Sandaled feet in front of her, firmly grounded.
What do you say about her?
The feet move.
Wait! Please. Don’t leave!
How would the first stone feel?
The face of a man, like every other, yet...not.
He writes, unreadable etches in the stark earth.
Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her. The men pause, furious.
An elder raises his arm.
The dark slab pounds into the sand, inches from the woman,
Who stares at death.
Again, the ethereal man writes,
His face turned from the scene.
Murmuring, disappointment,
Silence.
Has no one condemned you?
Afraid. He has the right to throw the stone.
Neither do I condemn you.
Peering up into a most wondrous gaze,
Love, mercy, justice.
Go and do not sin again.
Olivia Manocchio ’17
Miranda Dorsey ’18 9