Nothing to Read

I tell my parents I can’t find anything to read at home.
They don’t point impatiently to the full bookshelves
all round the house. Instead,
since it’s vacation, on their way to work,
they drop me at the library.

Three tall narrow windows frame
bookshelves built into the walls and painted
seamlessly off-white—
frame me as I learn how to ask for wishes from a sand-fairy,
flee across war-torn Europe with a Jewish family,
raise a white deer with a mute Aztec boy,
roam the Australian outback with two Abo teens.

Outside, pied crows call from the football pitch.
I savor the smell of new paper and old paper,
ink and bookbinding glue. At the end of day,
my parents come, ask if I want to check out the book I’m reading.
I’ve already finished two. But I didn’t swallow them whole
like seeds. I ground them to flour
to make bread. Without libraries,
children would starve.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside