My father gave me a beautiful poster print

from his tool and dye shop at Xerox

when I was a senior in high school

picturing colorful hardcover books stacked in a pyramid

and beneath this obelisk an epitaph:

“A Monument To Ephemeral Facts”


It was beautiful, and I was offended

The same way I was offended by the Nook reader

not one atom in my being desiring to trade

the warm familiarity of turning pages

for the cold clinical brightness of a tablet screen


I was young then, but oh how certain I was

that I was a crone hag bent on traditional wildness

unwilling to trade any convenience for the magick of my tools

the way, I’m sure, 20th century writers clung to their manual typewriters

too aware that their woods was lacking in electrical outlets


But I loved my library in those days

no matter how many flights of stairs I had to haul it up

no matter how many broken bookshelves needed replacing

that was nearly a decade ago, maybe more

my hands lost count of the calendar pages

and today I’m a top floor treehouse girl


My library fell away in chunks

with only 5 small boxes of books to brave these stairs

and damn, man, it was serious, 2020 has me in my 30s

with all my druthers I’d go back to 19 and tell me mean

“Don’t be a Luddite, Bunny, an online library is fine

books are obsolete baby, give your back a break.”

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