Libraries
I am a book
Given to myself by my mother, given to herself by hers, and so on
I am a name
Given to me by my own pages turning past the last
Wording on my skin, lifted with water and vinegar
I am a book; cover bent and misshapen
Used up and abused, books stole past me
One another telling lies, because we are books
And lies are known to represent books
I am a word
Given to me by my father, and his to him by his father, and so on
I am nothing short of a miracle
Mesmerizing in the rain, metastasized by the disease of me
Fire lighting candles on trash cans, and burning incense on windowsills
My name is John Doe, or perhaps just Jane
Or maybe I am another Silence Dogood
Writing as someone with nothing to do, someone else to be
Or maybe I am a tree; rooted in my own ground, soon to be turned into new pages
Words chiseled into my skin, "I am just what I am."
And who cares to distinguish the truth from my bones?
I am a book; carved in stone
Etched in eyeglasses and on brick walls
My words plain nonsense, but understood where it matters
Because books sometimes aren't understanding
Because books sometimes don't seem understanding
I am a book; dropped in a river
Rocks have eaten away at my flesh, like rocks do
Because rocks are of rocks
And I am of books
Copyright © Iris B. Fayne-OnLook | Year Posted 2024
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