I scour the bookshelves for myself.
Who shall I be today — Georgia O’ Keefe?
Ah, to be alone with my art for days on end.
I could be Allen Ginsberg.
No, his life was too large—
he had far too many friends.
How about Thomas Merton, or Black Elk?
I can contemplate life all day,
or be like Frida Kahlo and paint my suffering away.
I scour the bookshelves for myself.
I’ve done this since I was a child.
I looked to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Anne of Avonlea,
They were celebrated; they felt wild.
I felt if I could be found in them,
then that would mean a part of me was worth something too.
That would give me some worth, some value.
I scour the bookshelves for myself.
Just a glimmer, a hint, of who I am.
Surely I can catch a glimpse
in this book I hold with my hand.
I turn to page 323.
Nope, I am not found resting there.
I begin to doubt a piece of me
could be found in my own biography.
I scour the bookshelves for myself.
Then I realize, that I will not be found within these books.
I am untouchable; undefinable
and that is going to have to be okay.
So slowly, carefully, with much trepidation,
I put the books on Queen Elizabeth
and Jane Austen away.
This article appears in Apr 20-27, 2017.