FACSIMILE OF A BOLD HAND
How to Steal a Map
Centuries before Gutenberg
taught Shöffer, the Moors learned
papermaking
from Chinese slaves.
And so it began. Information
pursued trade routes
on the slope of technology.
There are many ways to steal
a leaf from a book. I prefer.
this way. It is the most elegant.
Nuremberg, free Imperial City,
the seat of the Holy Roman Empire.
Anton Koberger endeavored
to print the history of the world.
It can’t be vellum (though that is
lovely) as it is too strong
for this technique. You would need
a razor blade, another story.
In this chronicle you will
see experience clustered
in lead & wood,
paper & ink.
These pages are paper. Fabricated
from pieces of petticoat.
At times a ruffle was found.
The margins are broad,
mimicking those needed
for the scribe’s hand to rest.
Homage to the past.
The shock of the old.
A facsimile of a bold hand.
You’ve arrived to your task
with a length of strong thread
in your mouth. It has soaked
overnight, rested in water, until you
enter the library. With your tongue
move the thread between your cheek
and your back teeth.
Woodcuts of towns and people
employed over and over,
were meant to suggest,
not depict, cities & men.
The order of the cosmos,
the world was composed,
in black letters.
Take a drink of water. Ask kindly
for the books. Call numbers:
ff IG4 . N8K6 . 1493sq in German
or
ff IG4 . N8K6 . 1493s in Latin.
This informational madness
devised for commerce:
indulgences demanded
—many & quickly—
a task for machines.
Leaving behind
the scribal hand.
When the books are put
in front of you, find the page.
It’s near the middle. Move
the thread to the top
of your tongue, cover your mouth
and cough. There, in your hand,
is the wet thread.
Men were paid
and men were poisoned.
Nimble-fingered boys snapped
tailings of lead
from the type of a language
they couldn’t read.
Your hand rests in your lap,
manipulate the thread
toward your thumb
& index finger. Work fast
it shouldn’t dry. Lay it
in the book’s gutter, firmly
pull down. Close. Wait.
The curve of the world
folds in on itself leaving
flatness and errors in books.
So that the reader,
upon finding them,
might feel superior.
The water in the thread dissolves
the paper, making a cut.
As you open the book, sweep
your hand down the page depositing
the loose leaf in your lap. You’ve had
the foresight to wear
voluminous clothes.
It’s almost yours.
Jacqueline Hughes Simon received her Master of Fine Arts in poetry from Saint Mary’s College of California. She is a volunteer and board member of an environmental education non-profit, where she works with and trains the donkeys. Which, in her opinion, constitutes the most interesting thing about her.