Vista

I watch you, bent over your book
in the corner of the local library reading room.
I wonder what you're reading:
your face is screwed with frustration
your mouth set -
ah... there you go
your face eases back to the serene look I am used to
and your eyes seem to flick toward me
as if sensing my ever-watching gaze -
but you just turn the page
and continue your reading.

I duck behind the nearest shelf -
Ancient Greek Mythology -
and think at how you
resemble a Greek god.
If I could have named you
I would have called you Dionysus -
I, your maenad, follow you.
It is said that Dionysus was
driven mad by his education
and you, driven mad by your passion for it.
Dionysus, god of wine and art, the sufferer,
died in winter and rose again, his resurrection celebrated
at the theater. He was the tragic god.

You spend each winter holed in your room,
reading and playing Pac-Man
and stealing drinks of wine
from your mother's liquer cabinet,
awaking again when the sun peaks through the shutters
and the snow melts.
Then, you take back the long-overdue stack of books
to the library, and spend most days there
hunched over them as I peer around the shelves
and watch you.