Holy Gillian Smith
The old man, brown
faded like another
suitcase in the thrift store
tells me he wrote a book
when he was my age.
I asked him where it was, could I find it?
He opened his papery brown hands, licked
a finger as if to turn a page, and said
it’s here, up here, the book is in my brain
and in my mouth
and in my hands.
I took them, held them, pink palms smooth like an encyclopedia, the whole