Alison Hicks

A storm has brought down the last of the leaves.
You look out the window.
Drudgery settles over the bare hillside.
Your mother brings home a paperback
cover faded browning edges
author you've never heard of.

You're fifteen, the same age as the narrator.
His friend disappears for three days,
comes back with a story about a château in the woods
doors and windows thrown open blazing light
men and women arriving in costume.

They pull him inside dress him in a silk vest and mask.
There is dancing and they let him dance.
He wanders through rooms as if he's dreamed them.
A young woman playing the piano tells him her name.

The map he draws does not show the way back.

You never read it in the original.
As if what came through your fingers might be undone.