Elizabeth Hannifin

The Book Speaks

The book speaks in tongues and within the babble I hear what it is I am meant to do. The book sings it’s broken song until all I hear is the soft sandy slide of brittle paper rubbing, rubbing against itself. It is the sound I hear in everything now. In the movement of doors, the slide of drawers and feet on pavement and my own lungs against the walls of my body. It keeps me from sleep, but perhaps always dreaming. And despite myself I know what it is it says, and where I am to go, and what I am meant to do, but not why I am meant to do it. I suppose I am meant to do it because the book wants me to do it.