There it waits, planted in the middle of a sentence,
a stranger sitting quietly on the page.
Growing up, your mother lined the walls with reading,
and words accumulated like small treasures—
hoarded coins, polished stones, prizes tucked into memory.
Yet here it stands: an unfamiliar face.
Your pulse quickens with the thrill of an encounter,
mingled with a scholar’s sudden offense:
How has this traveler managed to evade you?
Was it lurking in the margins on purpose,
a private conspiracy to keep you in the dark?
No matter. You pull down the heavy Webster’s,
demanding its lineage, origin, and shape.
You write it in the margin, speak it to the empty room,
turn it over on the tongue until the vowels behave,
then return to the paragraph to conquer the phrase.
Triumphant, you seek out listeners in the hall,
eager to display the newly captured spoil.
Conversations wander, evening takes the light—
until hours later, you remember the novel,
still sitting face-down on the arm of the chair.
