For John Graves (Southwest Review; Spring, 2014)

Authors: Rob Jackson

For John Graves

The books still lie sideways

on the books standing on the shelves,

but the chairs have dust-free silhouettes

where the hardbacks once were stacked,

and the dressers and tables are finally clear,

revealing letters from past years,

rusted snuffboxes, and a compass for drawing circles,

its rough-hewn pencil sharpened with a penknife.

Straightening them was easier than deciding

what to do with them all:

Lee’s first edition Mockingbird with the woodcut

oak on front, Henderson’s Artistry in Single Action,

celebrating the Grizzly six-shooter,

McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove in uncorrected proofs,

its cover yellow and severe like the Texas sands,

McCarthy’s The Crossing, with sepia skulls

staring out from the dust jacket.

I try to separate

the books by the ones to be kept.

When at last I find one to give away

I read the inscription, "For John Graves:

If I were stuck on a desert island

with 25 books, his would be at least three of them…"

and put it back.

I give in and lie on the office floor staring up

at the ceiling, where flaps of paint hang down

like the turned corners

of book pages. One shivers in the air from a fan,

then another. The ceiling begins to shimmer

and flow like water, and the books start to float

in procession through the door, down the limestone steps

and into the draw that leads to the creek

that leads to the final river.

And the room stands silent and empty.