Secret from the Library

Every Monday,

After school,

Papa brings all of us;

Hazel

Lila

Rowan

Baby Arlo (who’s actually three by now)

And me

To the library.

It’s a big brick building

Across from the park

Huge stone steps

Flower boxes

On all the windows

Lots of white curly cues

At the edges of everything.

Ninety minutes, Papa insists.

At least ninety.

Some weeks,

It feels like an escape

Sometimes,

It’s the prison

That I’m escaping from.

Hazel retreats

To her corner

Full of the Boxcar Children.

Lila cuddles up

With Grape the Purple Bunny

In a corduroy beanbag

With a baby book,

Even though she’s seven.

Rowan and Baby Arlo

Flank Papa

Listening

To the colorful picture books

Read in Papa’s

Paintbrush-on-a-canvas

Voice.

I

Have notebooks

Filled

With writing

From the library.

I’ve never touched

A single page

From those shelves

Other than

When I rest my back on them.

I will never

Ever

Tell Papa

Because I don’t know

If he will be angered

That his eldest daughter

Is ignoring such wonderful stories

To focus on her own,

Or

If he will be thrilled

That I want my stories

To go in libraries someday

Because he showed me

The place

Where great stories go. Every Monday,

After school,

Papa brings all of us;

Hazel

Lila

Rowan

Baby Arlo (who’s actually three by now)

And me

To the library.

It’s a big brick building

Across from the park

Huge stone steps

Flower boxes

On all the windows

Lots of white curly cues

At the edges of everything.

Thirty minutes, Papa insists.

At least thirty.

Some weeks,

It feels like an escape

Sometimes,

It’s the prison

That I’m escaping from.

Hazel retreats

To her corner

Full of the Boxcar Children.

Lila cuddles up

With Grape the Purple Bunny

In a corduroy beanbag

With a baby book,

Even though she’s seven.

Rowan and Baby Arlo

Flank Papa

Listening

To the colorful picture books

Read in Papa’s

Paintbrush-on-a-canvas

Voice.

I

Have notebooks

Filled

With writing

From the library.

I’ve never touched

A single page

From those shelves

Other than

When I rest my back on them.

I will never

Ever

Tell Papa

Because I don’t know

If he will be angered

That his eldest daughter

Is ignoring such wonderful stories

To focus on her own,

Or

If he will be thrilled

That I want my stories

To go in libraries someday

Because he showed me

The place

Where great stories go.