I cut my teeth on large tomes and small, thin novellas
frail pages turned an off sepia of gray-brown, fragile
well before they ever got to me
books my dad kept, drug from place to place
books I would drag through the years as well until I parted with them all
Herbert’s spice, Asimov’s robots, Cherryh’s space station, Lee’s mockingbird, Sidney’s little Peppers;
I carried home as many as my long, thin arms could carry
as many as Mother would allow, disallow when her whim struck or the winds changed
Katie, Flowers in the Attic, The Cider House Rules
all read before my thirteenth birthday, significant
a day like any other, a day forgotten by all
a day scorched when I walked home alone, before the bell, in clouds of thought, bloody
but I was never questioned on the content or titles, never censored
too many too much above my years’ comprehension
things that made the world outside seem wrong, seem strange, seem other
things that formed me made me kept me
alone in my room reading
