The Library of Maps, #38
THE WINDOWS OF THE LIBRARY

One of the great surprises of the Library
Is its windows.

Even the most knowledgeable
Often don’t know
What they will see,
As the plain glass changes willfully
Into a mirror and back
At a moment’s notice.

Skilled readers, however,
Who sit for years
By the Library’s windows,
Learn—over time—
When to avert their eyes or not,
Depending on whether
They want to see themselves
Or
The outside world.

The less skilled never learn
And thus live
In a state of constant bewilderment.
In addition to the Library’s unpredictable windows
They must contend
With its intimidatingly huge collection
Of reading glasses of various strengths,
Of magnifying glasses, small and large,
Of telescopes that take them, willy-nilly,
To different galaxies,
And of binoculars that distort
Their already precarious grasp of distinctions
Between the near and the far.

Then there are those
Who are assailed
By either vanity or self-doubt.

Both are drawn to the windows
As are those
Who, sensing their imminent death,
Stand by the windows
To choose whether to see themselves
Or the world outside the Library
In their last moments.

In earlier times,
It was customary,
After each Chief Librarian died,
To break
The “last” window
—which had captured the image of her transfixed stare—
And throw the shards into the Acheron River
Where they sank to the bottom,
Becoming part of the sandy sediment there.

But more recently,
A new tradition has emerged:
Now,
A Chief Librarian’s “last” window
Is merely covered
For a century or so
By curtains.

When these curtains are finally pulled back,
The window appears like all the others,
Except to a future Chief Librarian,
Who alone can see in it
A shadowy open mouth
And
Hear the almost imperceptible utterances
Of her predecessor.

by Moira Roth
Written 6/22/03 in Papingo, Northern Greece; revised 6/23-24/03 Parga, 6/29/03 Milopotamos, and 7/07/03 Berkeley