feeling trapped

(catching up: friday)

kimberly wandered up and down the aisles of books. the shelves reached the ceilings, which were twenty feet high. she seemed to be in the history section: wars, politics, religion, art. she found the end of the row and turned to the left, searching for poetry.

suddenly, she spotted it. a slim chapbook with a flimsy olive green cover. his name on its narrow spine: "tank ginnis."

her father's book of poetry -- "a nickel and five senses." the dedication page evoked kimberly's mother, joanna.

kimberly tucked the book under her arm and turned to find the cash register. the bookshelves crowded behind her, blocking her way. she walked down the next aisle, listening for voices or sounds of commerce, but hearing only papery silence. she was surrounded by cheap paperbacks. stephen king novels stacked on the floor nearly tripped her. she caught herself from falling; she picked up her pace.

each aisle opened into another wall of books; every path between bookshelves was empty of other people.

she felt slightly panicked and almost called out when another book caught her eye. "the generic storm," her dad's last book. dedicated to rita, a woman who, as far as kimberly knew, did not exist. the alzheimer's had begun to take hold then. his poetry was achingly beautiful and uninterpretable. it had won multiple prizes for tank ginnis, posthumously.

she hesitated. did she want this one, too? she had promised herself she would never read it; the pain of those last few years too deep. she untucked "the generic storm" from its misplace between two koontz books. she opened it at random:

"the used bookstore," she read. she looked around herself, at the store she had never been in before, in a town she was just passing through. she remembered her father's smell: aramis and tobacco. it was as though he were standing next to her.

volumes line these labyrinth aisles

awake? asleep? fingers

breaking to draw sharpened nails

across the tissue of my mind

a dusty pulpy smell

too many memories

gasping for air, trapped

beneath the weight of years and atmosphere

barefoot i climb the walls

i climb the shelves

as though gravity were pulling

perpendicular i step on the backs

of millions and millions of words

long humming neon lights

(she looked up; there were neon lights)

buzzing behind my eyes

i reach out to touch one

(i am on the ceiling)

(she looked up, fearful he would be there)

(like a spider, like a crouching monkey)

(all limbs of a decade-rotted corpse)

in the burning light i collapse into