As I’m clearing out my possessions, my bookshelf is becoming vacant.
I donated three boxes of books to the library last week. It felt good.
I had a fourth box I didn’t bring. And I realized, it can’t go.
Not the poems. I donated several student publications I had collected since college. They were greedily picked over, and the look of delight on the workers’ faces was edifying, I admit. I liked knowing my books will find a new life with these eager readers. I gave them free chapbooks from traveling poets I’ve met. I gave them old student literary journals, a few I was published in myself.
But I’m unpacking that fourth box.
Not Sharon Olds.
Not Diane Wakoski.
Not Robbie Q. Telfer.
Not Meggie C. Royer.
Not Nick Flynn.
Not Sylvia Plath.
Not Robin Metz.
Not Ryan McLellan.
Not Susan Slaviero.
Not emily rose.
They stay with me. I will re-populate my shelves. But they are the townspeople, I will not evict them.