Poetry:::July 12

by Jona Branzuela Bering

The books, read and unread, are occupying their space
in a box, either saying hello to each other or snubbing,
—Postmodernism is arrogant, said romanticism.
Or they will be arguing who is the best poet, fictionist
of all times, or arguing if —ism is necessary in pursuing art.
|And some will concede since they will not be conceived if not
Or some will argue since they should not have been labeled
As feminism, imagism, or magic realism.
And it will not be long, they will occupy
the same bookshelf, yet they will not be having
The same neighbors. Before, a James Joyce is flirting
With Marilyn Robinson, now she is befriending
Margaret Atwood, who, in the other hand, criticizes
Her second-characterized women. And the bookshelf
will be the witness of this changes and just silent
while listening to the awkward transient silence of the books.
And the books will realize, it is not the same room,
not the same smell, not the same paint, not the same perspective.
And outside, it is not the same address.
And they, the books and the bookshelf, will smile with her decision.


This is still a draft, which badly needs refinement.