Opus

A History of Bookbinding

We were

 

a book, bound

by your parchment-ality,

twice-folded beneath empty

promises, only meant to last

four leaves, a quarto volume

of the past year

 

a book, bound

by needle and thread, pages

tethered but never aligned.

Sticky fingers, we glued

our signatures together

 

a book, bound

by an untitled spine, decorated

in bitter hues of silenced sorrow,

a mere reflection of our status,

my heart and its ache.

 

I am

 

a book, rebound

by pre-existing love,

 

a scroll, rerolled

around the single core of being,

an echo of the ancient Greeks.

 

Unwind me, the complete

me, then read me,

beginning

to end,

 

I am

 

a new creation.

 

by: Claire Furjanic

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