Читать книгу Confessions of a Barefaced Woman - Allison Joseph - Страница 8

In silence, in shadow, this girl reads words—

sounds discrete as bricks, jagged as shards

of bottles smashed against the library’s

concrete steps, its entrance an alley

reeking of piss, booze, its pavement

giving way, cracked along city fault lines.

Inside, one room of warmth and dirt,

floor wax and gum wrappers, paperbacks

thumbed and stamped with inky due dates,

hardcovers wrapped in yellowed cellophane,

tables and chairs with initials carved

into them, damage sunk deep in wood.

Here I learn the potency of words,

their sounds resounding in my head,

ears, equilibrium shaken,

words destined for my preteen ribcage,

my body a bony geometry. Here,

the hours teem with voices, their rhythms;

coiled tense, I lean on words and love

all this—broken bindings, smudged print,

fondled pages, my library card,

warm slip frayed in my taut grip.