I held it in my hands while he told the story.
He had found it in a fallen bunker,
a book for notes with all the pages blank.
He took it to keep for a sketchbook and diary.
He learned years later, when he showed the book
to an old bookbinder, who paled, and stepped back
a long step and told him what he held,
what he had laid the days of his life in.
It’s bound, the binder said, in human skin.
I stood turning it over in my hands,
turning it in my head. Human skin.
What child did this skin fit? What man, what woman?
Dragged still full of its flesh from what dream?
Who took it off the meat? Some other one
who stayed alive by knowing how to do this?
I stared at the changing book and a horror grew,
I stared and a horror grew, which was, which is,
how beautiful it was until I knew.