It’s a wonder
What happened to my childhood-self.
She is not hidden in the midst
Of soft cotton super hero t-shirts;
The metallic clang of hangers
Scraping against the racks has ceased.
Black streaks mar the
Cool, white tile of the cereal aisle
That was once her playground.
The sharp vexation in her step-mom’s voice
Is out-screeched by the perpetual beep of checkout lines.
Dirty skechers squeak in pursuit of escape.
Near blinding illumination
Reflects off the tiles’ glassy surface,
Along with a brown face that
Stares up with fascination.
It is white and not black that bleeds through
The edges of this vision.
Slightly longer limbs and spine are
Hunched and bent amorphous:
To fit themselves possessively around
The lives and adventures in our hands.
Feeding freely on their knowledge
On an island of rough carpet
And rosewoods that house everyone’s bible.
Yellowed pages flutter as they turn,
Like the rustling of a bird’s feathers.
Plastic wrapping of the library books crumpling
under the weight of our hands as we press it flat.
We now run between the lines of crisp, freshly printed ink,
Upon thousands of pages.