My bookshelf serves many purposes aside from the obvious, being at times a repository for curio, a bike stand, and a cocktail bar. But most of my books do not live on these shelves. They gather in little drifts in the corners of my room, or pile up on the nightstand— the unused length of my bed.
These bookshelves are a demonstration for the visitor to our home, a display of serried, heavy spines, classics and coffee table spreads. The liminality of our dining room, its role as thoroughfare between kitchen and living room, makes this a transient space of our home—not a place to linger over titles or peruse old books in some thickly-cushioned armchair.
My bookshelves are as much a centerpiece to an ideal as the seldom-used cocktail set that crowns them (our actual cocktail set being rather banged up by this point). My books—my real books— live with me, out of sight, where and how I love to read them.
Luke Marinac studies and works at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. His poetry has appeared in Polaris, The Siren, Unlikely 2.0, and North Central Review. He believes bike repair belongs in the living room and enjoys the gamboling through the wild countryside of the Smokey Mountains.
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