Belle Randall

On opening a long unopened book, what odor rises from the parting pages, what genie is released, what dark spell broken, as if some spirit trapped inside for ages, By this hinge swung open were set free? My father’s hand has jotted in the margins its own blunt text of what must be lecture notes, and planted his place marker Like a flag among “The Dry Salvages”— a UC

If thy own hand . . . offend thee —Matthew 18:8 Self-hatred? No, no dear: that seems inflated — chagrin: the shame you feel when friends withdraw for reasons they leave tactfully unstated, leaving you to guess at your faux pas From all you did and didn’t say for ages, as in some vast congressional report, your sin, at last, is lost among the pages; a snow of detail cuts inquiry short. In downtown windows where late sunlight glares, you see yourself, as if you’d never met. Who is this rumpled lookalike who wears a blouse like yours, the armpits dark with sweat? Your eighth grade diary still makes you cringe saved—for what?—that you might now despise pages time has lent a jaundiced tinge pouring forth their daisy-dotted