La Biblioteca is a Doula

When my saddle shoes were too big

so they might last beyond the year

I ran away from home

where yelling to be heard by the unheard

rattled in my skull; burial ground of secrets.

One foot met the other

like long lost friends

awkwardly skipping their way

into Saturdays, towards stacked

protective fortresses from

childhood’s dark labyrinths;

where underestimated

eyes of innocence

found immortal truths

understood more deeply

than the tall ones

with sour faces

who had dropped their smiles

on brutal roads of hunger,

on endless days of

earning just enough

from tightened fists

that grabbed too much.

The library door

where I found my Narnia.

Where I fell in love with Emerson.

Where I read Chinese women poets

and wrapped myself

in the silk of words,

of punctuation strung like pearls

stitching together the stops, the starts,

the questions, the breaths,

the echoes and exclamations unleashed

from a soul so new to the world,

so old to life.

Where I stood on tippy toes

to find the vast longings

of human history;

to find myself

gathering lost smiles

into dreamscapes of resilience.

Musty books perfumed my imagination.

Crisp new books fell open

in my tiny hands

like tomorrow’s gold that promised

there would always be enough

in the temple where anything

is possible.

Where now, pressing into

Winter’s whim I am consoled

by the Velveteen Rabbit.