Unsold Goods

In a small town in the American South
In a second-hand bookshop in decline
In the poetry corner
I found an edition of Emily Dickinson’s poems
Small enough to fit into the palm of the hand
When I opened the book
Only a scrap of the title page
Mercilessly torn out remained
A jagged tear ran along diagonally
Possibly
With love
Or
To you with love
Or
To my darling
Or
I vow unending love
Or
With a dedication from an unknown sender
A secret, unforgettable phrase was written here
Thinking of the lost lines
I returned the collection to the shelf
The weak winter sunlight from the window
Warms the dust on the tiny spine
Of the one dollar Dickinson volume
To remain unsold
Was this her secret role?
Like the bird that cannot fly
Because part of a wing is missing

UNSOLD GOODS