Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue One

Michael Estabrook

whispering their lines

On weekends I would drive an hour to her school to study with her there in the library, a cold concrete place, ten stories high, with dull gray carpets and thin metal shelves. We'd find a space not crowded, spread out our papers and books, work in silence doing calculus and embryology, genetics, physics and organic chemistry. But sometimes I'd bring Browning or Byron, Keats, Shelley or Tennyson, and I'd whisper their lines across the table at her turning the lifeless, windowless concrete room into a pine forest shimmering with butterflies and bees with a softly murmuring brook, yellow, blue and red flowers covering its bank. And she'd smile at me then.