"Before I was sixteen / I was fast / enough to fake / my shadow out," I read.
"The instructor said, / Go home and write / a page tonight. / And let that page come out of you-- / Then, it will be true."
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--"
I placed my lips against the feverish brow of my boy, my fingers running along the length of his arm, reading over the top of my worry. Reading because the sound had soothed him, had taken him away from the limbs of his discomfort. Reading.