this book is not a former library book. it has mild
smudging where a child lay down her candy bar
on a hot summer day; a few nail polish
spills enhance the hand-coloured
illustrations from A. Rackham, charmingly.
the spine has not cracked. God knows why.
the dog held it in his mouth for five whole minutes
(after the chocolate bar fiasco) slightly foxed, it is.
dog spumed. you won't mind, it's a rare edition.
grass stained, owner's former name in
Christmas inks, a bookplate with a mustachioed pirate.
a st. therese funeral card, bookmark-
the one with creamy roses in her arms,
tear creased;
in a former life, greatly loved, thumbed through
by small thumbs on finger-painting day at nursery school.
a magical screed. and glitter spattered that day we attempted
(for a school geography project), the glittering snows of
Russia done, in papier mache and cerise towers.
bravely crayoned in.
once left under the redwood table, at the beach, after hours
you'll hardly wonder at
the mild water damage, scent of summer rains, old ferns,
the tuna fish lunched wax paper scrap from a
vanished picnic. tally, a
moon map scissored from the National Geographic
by my Grandfather.
a day that something wonderful was learned.
the once pink rose herein preserved.
the laundry ticket, included for free;
extravagant as Easter, one foil candy wrapper
smelling, faintly, of toffee.
coffee stains, no cream.
no extra shipping;
dreams...
mary angela douglas 17 july 2014
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