Dazzling

The Woman Who Buys Books

She reads the rippled rows
of spines in the two dollar box,
glancing over titles, extracting

The Fatal Shore,
Winter's Bone.

In the bustling hall, trestle tables
groan under crates of records,
discs and books. Nothing is new.

The Warrior Queen,
The Power Book.

Peering through the smears
on her black framed glasses
she seizes at titles, builds a tower.

Look at the Birdie,
Fugitive Pieces.

Her son has taken a brief step back,
her anger absorbed in paper,
distracted from stress.

Women & Ghosts,
My Secret Garden.

The shelves at home contain
evocative rows of unread books.
If she reads one a week

The Bearded Lady,
The Love Child,

she has more than five years
of reading. There is no system.
She buys and buys and buys.

The Name of the Star
The World to Come.

Narrative out of books
can be exhausting. The world
believes that readers do nothing.

"Where Did You Go?"
"Out."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."

Bound futures, contained
and determined, unread,
full of promise as an empty purse.