His bedroom was full of books
bound in gold, studded with gems.
The ivory covers depicted scenes
I had only heard of before.
A wedding, a car crash, a shattered window,
a house with a hula hoop around the chimney.
I went through as many as I could take.
They were stacked to the ceiling in towers,
arranged in grids and rows that shrunk
any actual living space to a t he had filled
with a nest of blankets, a shower caddy,
and a dusty green banker’s lamp.
No closet, no windows, of course.
None of it surprised me until I tried
to leave and could not find the door.
Anthony R Cordello lives and works in Boston. He has work published in decomP magazinE, Jellyfish Review, Jersey Devil Press, Gravel, and The Airgonaut.
Eunoia Review 