At the Library (for Grace Paley)

Mandy Clark

My son wants me to ask for the one about World War II

with a piano and a girl?

On the cover a kind of bird: white, he says. 

After eleven years, I tell him to go ask himself

But the young woman, typing in a search for 

another, lifts her finger to wait his turn.

A nickel short on the meter costs me a ten dollar ticket.

Today I found myself between the self-help and the children’s section

At the edge of cartoon covers with teddy bears and 

calico kittens whose parents drink too much.

There I was in the pictures, mother and daughter at once

Like paper dolls we wear each other’s dresses.

And later, after a second bottle of cabernet sauvignon, I say

good job on finding the book you wanted.

He says, they didn’t have that one. And your teeth are

red.