Poetry

Forced Identity

All those books that I never quite read, but

fingered their pages in second hand shops.

Flirting, checking,

which ones look good,

in their yellow vintage dresses.

Maybe I’m more concerned,

with the smells and the identity,

that just three more old books will give me.

That coffee and guardian childhood -

Dad in his big glasses and woolly jumper

kind of identity.

That they all got,

but me –

I create it from piles of old books.

Maisie-May Lambert