A Little Free Library—Karen An-hwei Lee

You’re free to call it whatever you wish. 
Bibliotheca. Athenaeum. Book collective. Sequoyah, 
 	the man who invented the Cherokee syllabary, 
referred to words on paper as Talking Leaves. This book 
 			is a tree, and a library, our forest,
acres of photosynthesis yearning skyward, free—
 	a midnight field and faraway nebulae. 
On a tree-lined lane—a sturdy, little library stands sentry,
then another, yet a third—at least half a dozen
 		within a one-block radius, the mailboxes
and birdhouses on two-by-four posts, the glass door
 	plywood-framed, adorned with decals
of angels, tulips, and stenciled stars. I’ve said, previously,
I’d never use the word unicorn in a poem—
 		yet I’ve done it for the sake of little libraries,
 	the free exchange of unfettered ideas, 
musty vaults of spiritual memoirs, organic chemistry texts,  
 	hydrogeology, hermeneutics, and northern lights—
historical atlases of the ancient world,
 		amplified translations, birdwatcher’s guides,
  			a nerdy abode for dictionaries—
gambrel-roofed, asphalt-shingled, or gable-topped
on Prairie Avenue, Oak, Forest, and Harrison—
 	the curbsides of Irving, Wakeman, Hawthorne, 
   	Longfellow, Main, Crescent, and President;
 		Jefferson, Union, Lincoln, and College. 
The little library needs no other explanation,
 	its pages redolent as wisteria blooming, 
 			braided with ivied leaf
 		without a sign above a garden door—
eloquent armfuls of ideas, paginated blessings
 	asking neither for shelter 
 			nor salary. We spot the little free
libraries here and there as red-breasted robins
 	with bellies full of earthy supper, 
the secret of contentment right in our backyard,
 		little libraries popping up everywhere,
among sparrows, finches, pipits, wrens, and warblers—
 				right on the lawn—
put up a little library, name it whatever you wish,
a girlhood puppet, a favorite elm tree, your great aunt,  
 		or a gold asteroid
with its epochs of clandestine, mineral existence 
 	 		sailing past the moon—	
not as barren as one might assume, rather, free—
 	a lively scriptorium of the imagination. 
The little free library, in a sense,
 		is a living tree like us, too.

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Karen An-hwei Lee is the author of the novels The Maze of Transparencies, Sonata in K, and Love Chronicles from the Octopodes, all published by Ellipsis Press in Jackson Heights, New York. Her forthcoming novel, Marimo, Mon Amour (University of Alabama Press/FC2) won the Catherine Doctorow Prize for Innovative Fiction. Lee has also authored half a dozen poetry collections, most recently The Beautiful Immunity from Tupelo Press. Her short works have appeared in Washington Square Review, The London Magazine, Kenyon Review, Poetry Ireland, Michigan Quarterly, Image: Art, Faith, Mystery, and other journals. She lives in greater Chicago, where she is Provost at Wheaton College.

Catch up with Karen online:
@karenanhwei (Instagram)
@karenanhwei (Twitter/X)
karenanhweilee.com (Word Press)

Photo by Peyman Shojaei on Unsplash