i want to be treated like a library 
when you decide to love me--

walk into my shelves--
i take out the due date
stamper & press it on the
back of your hand-- this is 
how long i'm letting
you look at what pieces
of me you want to check out--
do you like to look inside atlases
or are you searching for a book
of old poems whose pages
smell like january leaves
peeled page by page off
the sidewalk--
i like atlases because they teach
you to walk anywhere & that sometimes
Antarctica can be pink & i imagine
me & you suspended in pink snow--
eating hunks of cotton-candy earth--
& sometimes the best poems
forget their authors & sometimes 
an atlas is a poem & sometimes
you read to me from the
coast-- the names of mountains-- cities
& rivers we could go to
if we would leave the library--
take me from the stack of call numbers--
302 RAL-- 302 SAU-- 302--SAX--
the book spines left on
my knuckles-- this is what it
feels like to have to walk
aisles of book shelves 
for a first page-- your
first kiss with me will be a printed word
& what the library teaches
us is that there are stories on the
fourth floor-- how much do you 
want to read & how long
are you willing to forage
of an answer?
this body of mine has had
pages torn out to be eaten--
cracked book backs--
dog eared pages & jackets
chewed by dogs--
marginalia mouths of
these gods-- what have you used
for a book mark lately?
we find napkins & hair ties &
notes passed in trigonometry
class where people decided to
stop reading the backs of
my forearms--
dog-ear by pelvis-- photocopy
the index printed across my 
lower back--
what is your favorite book
you'll ask me because you might
not know any better--
so i'll tell you i keep a library
of a body so i never ever ever
have to pick just one--
do you want to read with me?
i'm stamping the due date
on the back of your hand--
let's walk up to the fourth 
floor of my body & pick out
something new-- a book
with a musty jacket & a title 
neither of us can read--