when the white lady in the hood library
asks me if she can help me find anything--
seemingly grateful for a 'safe' face to talk to,
or maybe just to talk to someone
who looks like they might want to talk about books,
and not tax returns or job applications
or high school research papers and wikipedia--
when the white lady in the hood library
approaches me, and wants to help me find a book,
i ask her what the young people are reading these days.
she looks at me funny; clearly she hasn't seen
what's already in my hands, austen, joyce,
hemingway and faulkner, atwood and carson and friedan.
she says, evanovich? and i try to hide the smirk,
but she sees. proulx, she says; and i say, sure,
can you show me where? she hands me a paperback,
worn and torn, smiles and leaves me.
impulsively i want to touch her shoulder, turn her around,
and tell her-- i am going to read this book naked.
i read it in high school, and then again in college,
and hated myself afterwards, both times. for a book
like this, you must be willing to bare yourself,
to open yourself up, gut to sternum to mouth,
a red line of blood up your belly and tongue,
to get even a taste of what the author is saying.
i want to tell her, i will read this book naked
on my stomach, in the middle of my bed,
in the sunlight on a sunday afternoon when i
should have gone to church but skipped, to sleep,
and to read this book naked. because proulx
and irving and plath and morrison and vonnegut
must be experienced wholly, as the sentient, sensory stories
that they are. you can't do that wrapped in image,
you can't read them cloaked in your outside face.
but i don't reach for her, i don't admit this to her,
i just add the book to my pile and sigh
because the white lady in the hood library
probably talked to me because i am white.