Library Doll by Liz Steale
Even as a child, nose stuck in book,
Called cruel names by her mother
Every alone and looking at the pictures
Choo choo trains and what remains is the sense
That, “well... he was always rather kind of odd,
Even since then... and where did we went wrong,”
Well, there's no mistaking things under g-d
And they,
They her called Ichabod.
Crane your neck to see.
No one had read as much,
As much more than me &
Maybe the clues will come in the next sentence (My library is too large to mention)
What's that? I can't hear: I was finding the order
Of operations, which we call a grammar
I'm on a bender
Genre defying (sense of course of, in re
in nomin-E gendre)
I drink all night and let my mind escape into the tomes This, within the ink spilled is where I am home
Among the shared word-sounds of our invention.
She stokes and lights the fires, hallah! Halloooh!
And funeral re
-quires sing-ing.
One last look into any book
She mirror mind and masques graves
raves and raids as me
& still what's seen is what
You think she's been.
& still you are
mistak-ing.
ABOUT:
Liz Steale is the nom-de-création of a poet, writer, and musician who lives under the incandescent glow of Las Vegas lights. Fae have abandoned, without apology, a career in teaching in order to write and create full time. Faer work can be found on The Stolen Dreams Substack at: https://lizsteale.substack.com/.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: library books - libby garnett
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