Birds of America

     Two nights ago, I fell asleep with Birds of America on my chest, one thumb planted between pages to bookmark my spot, the other in a tight fist against my cheek.  I woke, propped up on my side and stiff as a mannenequin ( if mannequins were permitted such poses.)  The book had migrated south.  It lay upside down and open, fitted loosely to my thigh like a shanty roof.  I felt as though my body had been wrapped in papier mache during the night and had hardened into a hieroglyph, only Moore had pressed her pen into the stiff gauze with her words, autographing me with her stories.  At times the pen pierced me, then a tickle. 

     I peeled back the sheet.  My right hand was numb.  I looked in the mirror.  My face was creased from the folds in the pillow.  Each mark, a memory--a chapter from her book with its sly humor and characters carved from the American landscape without so much as a splinter of sentimentality.  And yet, we care for them, be it a woman mourning over the death of her cat or the glib conversation of a scholarly set, who, it turns out, aren't always the smartest bunch when it comes to real life.  And who can forget the unexpected internal monologue of Mack in What You Want to Do Fine?  Moore's characters are flawed and generous and we love her for giving us both.  We are all in some cosmic literary seance,  having handed ourselves over, our fingers pressed to her heart-shaped planchette as she coaxes us across the ouija board, showing us words.