The librarian helps you retrieve a love story.
She points to the card catalog and
slides open the drawer that
resides in your hippocampus.
You smirk and dash,
running fingers along
dusty shelves.
The book’s binding is weathered, but
you grab that work of fiction,
the one that details
the dinners at the Italian restaurant that no longer exists,
the late nights analyzing Cool Hand Luke and A Confederacy of Dunces.
Your pointer finger,
the one accidentally sliced,
guides you from word to word
memory to memory.
The librarian beckons you back
pulling out
another drawer that
resides in your amygdala.
You grimace, withdraw.
It is she, not you, who
tosses back sheets
that cover shelves.
You press hands against ears as
she reads excerpts from
that work of nonfiction,
the one that details
your mom’s fall,
the choke hold.
The librarian pries
each of your fingers
and screams
words
memories.
