I pray to the spilled dust in those ancient libraries
where I blinked and squinted
as I shed wishes from rows lining my eyelids.
I heard litanies in lashes
in every self in that hall of mirrors,
invoking spirits between pages.
I fold the papyrus into planes
shooting arrows without the bows.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 1.
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Roula-Maria Dib is the director of the