by nathan martin
when at most the others looked away
you were the only one left wrapped in
tweed fingers you read books and shook
hands with the corners of very
tall still rooms.
when at least the others stopped to stare
you were a vinyl voice who drifted around
the room creating your own naratives
hardbound covered soft themed skin
so delicately complex.
before i was younger seeking to lift up your
skirt maybe even to take in a little of the
warm accent of your thigh, that soft slow
curve of your inner leg.
i remember sitting quietly staring at your crossed
legs wondering when your glasses would dropp
ever so slightly.
but of course your were fictionalized, marginalized,
transposed across the room between the shelves.
flip to the back page as you walk by and
the summary goes something like this.
my librarian lady sits across the way
in between hushed lips day by day.
self literate angel with a finger in her cardex,
holy in her house with a text full of sex.