No author listed, a title
on the spine that reads Veritas
in weathered ink—
the antediluvian smell
of ancient leather,
the coriaceous feel of the cover
under my fingertips.
I’ve searched for this in card catalogues—
it’s never been digitized, never listed
in any electronic database:
an incunabula printed five hundred years ago
on linen-rag paper, each page chiseled
from a block of wood:
the letters constellate now,
seemingly joined at random,
a code, a puzzle, a mystery unfathomed.
Yet at this flat and prosaic table,
under the harsh fluorescent lights,
and the hum of air conditioning,
the words rise up from the page,
slithering through my hands
to brand me, remake me—
I recoil, but they’ve
already found my mind,
revising the chapters of memory
and I pour into the pages,
feeling hands along
my spine.
Blind and silenced,
I slide back onto my shelf,
my name effaced,
replaced with a title, Errata,
and I wait now for someone
to awaken me once more.