“The map of this library”

can be found in the back of your brochure, 

lines neat and clean cut, 

unlike the universe of volumes it holds. 

See that space at the center of the library, 

where a yew tree has grown with me,

supporting the haphazard stacks that wobble

and collide each time my train of 

thought shifts? 

And that left wall, and the right, do you see them?

Everything I store lives there, 

every moment of laughter brought on by a bad joke, 

every second of doubt sparked by one lost point, 

every silent prayer for a moment of stillness thrown 

into the universe, 

buried beneath the pages. 

Ideas, future character names, 

vague memories I’ll always mark

as dreams, one or two pages 

always lost, 

like that earring you never found,

because it was tucked under your pillow. 

Look to the back wall as we go: 

see its curtain, woven from midnight thoughts, 

fluid and heavy as embroidered silk.

I draw it daily, when the chamomile 

has seeped into my veins, 

and sleep is an anvil over my head, 

falling through slow motion gravity. 

Sometimes, I close them, just so I can listen. 

Now, that back corner there, hidden by a stack of books, 

is eternally under renovation, 

doors never open to anyone without a key—

of which there are only three in existence. 

Few have access to its shadows and overgrown vines

besides my pen and the page. 

There is more here, of course, but 

not everything belongs on a map. 

Remember: the map of this library can be found 

at the back of your brochure, 

lines neat and clean cut, 

unlike the universe of volumes it holds. 

Note— if you return in a few years, this map may have changed. 

Baltimore Beat is running poems from participants in the group Writers in Baltimore Schools, which offers programming that builds skills in literacy and communication while creating a community of support for young writers.