Bookends (Poem from ‘Zero’)

In celebration of my book being bought by the National Poetry Library, here’s a poem from it. I’m so very excited and shocked by it but super happy.

Little thick fingers,

Light and dirty,

Rifling through pages in search of an answer not written,

I feel like a book, written in a language I can’t speak,

Being flicked through with a brisk impatience that takes away from my solitude,

I didn’t ask for this.

Either side are carved marble elephants,

Solid and standing between each side of the covers,

Leather and tattered from constant analysis over the years,

Less so to my liking and want but even now and then it happens again.

Why do you keep bothering?

What is the need to crease the edges and corners,

Slam shut from a frustrated huff and place back to gather some much-needed dust,

A blanket of quiet reclusive peace.

But the shelf I am on I built in original wood and design,

Maintained in love, a soul occupant,

For no one comes into the shop anymore and I have long since left the library.

I don’t think that it’s needed,

The spine isn’t as robust and someone naive could snap it,

Tear information from it and make a mess of the knowledge.

I’d hate to lose it,

Even if it’s just me who can read it.