I’m an old dusty book
my vertebrae, the binding,
my skin, leather-bound
the cover, my lips, prude,
as a virgin, waiting-
for someone, to pry open,
and read.

For hundreds of years
I have sat on this shelf,
ostracized
tattered
banished
longing to feel the palm
of one’s hand graze my
aged surface,
and liberate me.