My mother was a bookbinder. She would sew
reams of cream and indigo that held
all the knowledge she ever gave me.
The papers were thick, so it took us two
to flatten the pulp and prepare to print.
In that thick mulch I could catch
whispered words I would not hear as wise
until too late. The ink on my hands stamped
an authority I rebelled against, in my desire
to carve a space for my own characters.
When she died the books no longer spoke.
Their hushed secrets were silenced, the ink became
invisible. Their pages turned, but I could no longer
read them.
At night I dream of her. I drift away
until I am way back when, when
the pleasure of paper and print and words seemed
indelibly inscribed upon my hands, so it took
white spirit and wire wool
to remove them.
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