Through the alley-way,
a child my age carries
a blue bowl, a plate of salt
and unripe mangos, a sheaf
of old comic books rented
from the house at the end
of the row. Under the clothes-
lines dripping laundry, she
and her friends gather
to read the afternoon away.
I want to join them, thumb
through black and white
pages soft as sawdust to read
about the girl who swallows a stone
and turns into an avenging
hero. I believe in such things
especially since they are never
within my reach, here in this house
of windows— each a surface
my face has pressed against.
In response to Via Negativa: Good books.