It’s a wonder

What happened to my childhood-self.

She is not hidden in the midst

Of soft cotton super hero t-shirts;

The metallic clang of hangers

Scraping against the racks has ceased.

 

Black streaks mar the

Cool, white tile of the cereal aisle

That was once her playground.

The sharp vexation in her step-mom’s voice

Is out-screeched by the perpetual beep of checkout lines.

Dirty skechers squeak in pursuit of escape.

 

Near blinding illumination

Reflects off the tiles’ glassy surface,

Along with a brown face that

Stares up with fascination.

It is white and not black that bleeds through

The edges of this vision.

 

Slightly longer limbs and spine are

Hunched and bent amorphous:

To fit themselves possessively around

The lives and adventures in our hands.

Feeding freely on their knowledge

On an island of rough carpet

 

And rosewoods that house everyone’s bible.

 

Yellowed pages flutter as they turn,

Like the rustling of a bird’s feathers.

Plastic wrapping of the library books crumpling

under the weight of our hands as we press it flat.

We now run between the lines of crisp, freshly printed ink,

Upon thousands of pages.