the weight of books

i’ve always

loved the weight

of a good book

in my hand.

as a child

in Toronto

i exhausted

my librarian;

how much

i used to read.

 

when visiting

second-hand

bookstores

i still look for

that series

about animals

i scoured

over and over;

where i learned

that ostriches

don’t bury

their heads

in the sand,

that tuataras

have a third

eye, that

hyraxes are

related to

elephants

and manatees,

that birds

of paradise are

gloriously odd.

 

in university

my backpack

was full of books,

how satisfying

the thick thud

on study tables.

i discovered

other beauties:

van Gogh and

his passions,

Klee and his

moodiness,

Mondrian and

his measured

stillness,

the Abstract

Expressionists

and all their

spattered glory.

 

i still carry

every page

with me,

the body’s

memory

curled

around

each book

cradled

in my hands,

the turned

pages like

feathers.