Books are piled on my table — ripples of the work i was doing.
Searching for jewels among volumes of voices, too many voices
asking for some time. I bow apologetic, i have lost the luxury
of devouring stories and can only tiptoe on polished stones
hoping to find some meaning.
i find myself putting orange flags on pages
with my fingerprints. like bread crumbs on a
hansel and gretel library. loved poems, remembered verses.
a worn ee cummings’ book has a note pencilled in,
“take care of this ha.” that disappeared, one of many fragments
of a love screamed and abused into oblivion.
the eraser shavings like salves on tiny heart cuts, or crusts of scars that
keep getting scratched open. irony’s hollow laugh resonates
as i draw the white gummy surface over and over
these slightly yellowed pages to redefine
and re-member myself into my life.
i feel like a little rebel. sneaking things in because i love them dearly.