The twenty blocks he has walked still
coiled in his legs, the boy stands
at the desk, his eyes avoiding the librarian's,
his round brown face just reading-distance
away. He opens his fist as if it were a jewel box,
uncrimps the paper scrap torn from a corner
like a last chance, a cancelled stamp from a country
without laws. The librarian can't read the letters
tumbled into its folds. He smooths the paper,
coaxes the shy words, almost a book's name.
The librarian leaves in her busy shoes,
returns shimmying the book at her shoulder
like a tambourine. "Here it is, Francisco."
This is why he came: to get a book
that would fill him with a cool blue shade,
to hear her say his name.
Sandra Cutuli is a children's librarian who lives in Los Angeles.