The Crime Scene
The bulldozers came, square-jawed, thick knuckled, punching
each other in the shoulders, biting off huge chunks, spitting out
pieces of broken brick.
Stuffed in their pockets were The New Laws, hastily passed,
freshly stamped, ink not yet dry, signed by all the right people,
the most cynical.
In a matter of hours, they reduced the old schoolhouse library,
perimeter sealed, children sent home, to a cloud of chalk
dust above a heap of rubble, desktops jutting out here and there,
bent bookshelves, rebar, splinters of oak, remnants
of the double doors, once so inviting.
We waited for the sun to set, for the dust to settle, for the blood
to dry, me and mine, the mourners and something more
than just that, young at heart, just kids, adequately equipped,
armed, you might say.
Under the cover of night, with the complicity of the willows
in the courtyard, light-footed as ever, we worked, face masked,
coveralled, hands trembling like new leaves, filling our satchels,
diligent as young learners.
Some of them were still breathing, the books, the quietest
sound of all, the creaking of their bindings, deep down,
beneath the debris, volumes of children’s literature, long out of print,
tiny fingerprints still smudging the pages.
It was a delicate operation, all the way to dawn almost,
unearthing and stowing, resuscitating, the stealth of it all,
more than a few volumes salvaged, spirited away,
from the bans and bonfires, from the billy-clubs and brass knuckles,
safe for now.
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