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.
