Poetry: The Librarian by David Bankson
Our poem today comes from our Poet of the Month, David Bankson. It’s easy to see why he’s heralded as a great poet.
David is a full-time autodidact with a lifelong passion for poetry, philosophy, and linguistics. His works have been featured online at Thank you for Swallowing, Walking is Still Honest, and Indiana Voice Journal. His greatest influences are John Ashbery and William Carlos Williams, though he’s secretly quite fond of Shel Silverstein. More of his work can be found at https://www.facebook.com/davidthewordsmith
“The final book is closed,” she confesses
through cupped and quivering hands, hands
possessed of ancient force and fury.
But that force – that fury – drained
into a thin cup upon her fireplace mantle.
anxious mist across the floor
of her emptied library corridor.
In all my times here, I’ve never seen this
before, the way it hangs
over her hearth,
pliable yet untouchable,
as if protected
in the vacuum
chamber of a bell jar.
It does not belong, but it’s not
one cannot scratch a message
in the margin
when her books
checked out, unreturned,
some missing, some burned.
Not when you stand in the face
of the childhood librarian,
with no books
left for her care.