dust

My hands hold a book nearly 500 years old

My fingers brush my classmate’s

As he slides that book into my palm

His hand is warm but not soft against mine

As I cradle that book

I turn the butterfly wing pages

And look at a note in the margins

Written by a hand not unlike mine

Or his

I wonder how many hands have cradled this spine in the same way I am now

How many fingers have traced these pages

How many eyes have scanned this note

How many have asked these same questions

As this book slid into their hands