Reading Myself

Sister Jane, my sixth-grade teacher,
headed up the book club, with lapel pins
declaring “Readers are Leaders”
for those who read twenty-five books
from the classroom library that year.

She allowed only a couple of Nancy Drews,
believing them to be not quite
literature, like Anne of Green Gables.
If she were alive today, I’d inform her
that all the women on the Supreme Court
grew up on Nancy Drew. But I digress.

I wore my pin proudly.
I was clumsy on the hockey field,
rejected for cheerleading, and was
blissfully free of horrors like prom.
Unable to achieve popularity
or beauty, but nevertheless
able to write in perfect Palmer
Method, sing alto in glee club,
recite all the state capitals, and
quote Sara Teasdale, I could read
like a demon. But even then,

I suspected that Readers
were not Leaders; in fact,
they were, like me, solitary creatures,
curled up under a backyard hydrangea
or, in winter, squinting at Nancy Drew
under the covers, flashlight in hand,
long past midnight.

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Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Gradiva, Meniscus, ParisLitUp, and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES.