Bibliomania
I have fathered, at last reckoning,
fourteen children. My second eldest
Is a heroin addict and in his thirty-odd
years has contributed nothing to his society.
Truth be told, I see much of myself
in the boy. It was only yesterday that
he came, cap in hand, asking for yet
another handout. When I suggested he
might consider working for a living he
became furious, shouting and cursing,
ââI am an addictââ he stormed, ââI have an
Illness. And you donât care. Youâve never cared.ââ
And on and on whining like a kicked puppy
until I showed him the door. He slammed it
behind him so violently that a nearly full
glass of wine shivered,
and fell from its shelf
above the fireplace.
ââAnd close the door behind you,ââ I shouted
to his retreating figure, my voice sounding
a touch pathetic and swallowed up by the
overflowing floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
I grew pensive, mourning the loss of a fine
Reisling. I uncorked a Burgandy and nursed
a glass, along with my grudges.
To soothe myself I perused my bookshelves
until I found a calfbound First Edition Browning;
I stroked the cover absorbing the quality
and workmanship, letting it carry me into a finer,
a more noble century. I glowered.
I could, if I chose, show the pampered whelp
a thing or two. I could throw open door after door
on rooms of towering, toppling bookcases,
floorboards bowed and buckling under the weight
of compulsion. ââThisââ I would declaim,
ââis a spirit bound and shackled hand and foot
to the wheel of obsession.ââ
For the truth, is I have an ocean;
fickle in its sudden storms,
unpredictable in its tides, owing no tithe
to the cool coin of the night.
He has never seen me, barely conscious,
washed up on its shores. Nor seen me flick
trailing green fronds of kelp from my clothing,
nor has he witnessed me emptying my pockets
of shells, my eyes raw and weeping from salt.
No, I will not burden him with my despair.
He would only juggle the crucible that contains it
from hand to hand, like a hot coal and eventually
drop it, where it would roll out of sight and be forgotten.
My mind, stimulated by wine, throws up familiar
Images. I see myself clutching at my chest,
my fingers scrabbling uselessly at a shelf of paperbacks,
the light dimming to a green twilight, my tongue
reciting the sacred, the divine syllables:
New times roman, sans serif, Caslon. The last thing I see
Churchillâs ââA History of the English Speaking Peoples.ââ
I inhale deeply -aaaaahhh the intoxicating perfume of
paper, ink. As I fall to the floor my spirit shuffles away to loiter
amongst the worldâs literature.
And what is it I hear
over the roaring
of my blood?
The dry chuckle of paper
-shifting- against paper.
I











