Books books books

On the Fear of Being Swallowed by Literature

I
If there is a heaven, it is made of books. It is the hoarding-house
of thought made literal. Bookcases, of course, made of books,
but also chairs, toilets, windowpanes, and ovens.

There is no cooking in heaven. There is no hunting. What sport
with page-bound deer and doves two sheets to the wind?
My God, even the wind is undulating onion-skin!

From my room, the French window reads Les Fleurs du Mal
and shows me nothing outside. The world isn't evil, it says.
If there is a hell, it's burning us up from below. Every page

will flood with ink till there is nothing left to know. Please
take your seat. God's lit the match. Enjoy the show.

II
Hello out there! I am trapped in the belly of the great whale.
The sun shines through his ivory skin. Around me, the ruins

of a dozen ages, shattered marbles, copper in negligee verdigris,
and rusting nails from a thousand ships at sea.

But the stomach walls of this beast are blank and hungry.
With a flight of quills from a dead albatross

and a generous squid (he, too, wants to leave!), I begin to write:
Hello out there! I am trapped in the belly of the great whale.

by Andrew Kozma

in volume 3 issue 1

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