Wrong Order

Wrong book. My name on the label

but the title inside was someone else's—

an author I'd never heard of, the cover

still slightly tacky from the warehouse.

I should have filed the return.

Instead I stood at the kitchen counter

and fanned the pages against my thumb,

that tight resistance of a thing

not yet opened, not yet anybody's,

and pressed it to my face. Four minutes.

I know because I checked my phone.

The smell is chemical, something in the glue,

a sweetness that belongs to the factory

more than the story, more than the person

who ordered it, which was me—

except I ordered something else.

The bills were on the counter the whole time.

I put the book on top of them.

Didn't open the return form.

There's a want that doesn't have a name yet.

You stand there and breathe it in

and it's almost enough and then it isn't.