The Librarian Returns



Vowels and consonants gurgle and spin, vanish
out of reach. Words. I thought they'd come back,
like a stray you feed, like nesting starlings.

But they keep their secrets,
those mean contortionists – swim to the surface then drown –
don't mind me, too busy flirting with readers.

Behind my desk, I touch and breathe each book,
lush with grease, blood, gravy,
a hundred hands. I let stories come to me:

Madame Bovary, Tom Thumb, Anne of Green Gables.
I can tell a lot about a person from the books they choose.
Even the ordinary have their preferences.

Manners forgotten, I lift a finger.
Shush shush the offender. My pleasure –
not in the swirl of imperfect print, but in a job well done –

a hushed library.

Belinda Rimmer

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Belinda Rimmer would be pleased to hear them.