Yvette Viets Flaten 

In Nomine Libris

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“In nomine libris, et folii, et spiritus sancti, Amen.”

 

And upon The Great Folio, the cover closed, resounding throughout the hushed, sunlit Grand Library with all the holy and sainted authority inherent upon Head Librarian, quiet soles and blue serge suit, jewelry minimal, unlikely to clink even in the most trying moments. 

 

“Madam?” the little man inquired, shifting weight from one foot to the other.  “Madam?  I have a petitioner.  A good, eager, plain white…”

 

“Uh-hum,” Madam Superior cleared her throat, standing up from behind her vast desk.  Services done, it was time now to listen to the petitions for the plebian pages.  “What is your reference?” she asked.

The little man swallowed.  “I….  I mean, we…”

 

The scowl of Madam Superior nearly emasculated the little man.  He was a commoner after all, but he had been here before, years before, pleading his own case, and that gave him, at this very moment, more strength than his own low out-rolling would allow.  “We ask for a reconsideration of use, owing to our inherent genes and being classic laid, of a good house—”

 

“What house?”  Madam Superior interrupted. 

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The little man almost smirked.  What house indeed!  “The best, Madam,” he said, gaining assurance.  “Why, simply the best!  Twenty-four pound rag, nicely boxed, and a watermark as sharp as any printed this century.  Not acid, not base, guaranteed to last three hundred years—”

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“Enough!”  Madam Superior said.  “I asked the name of the house.  I didn’t ask a pedigree!”

 

“No, Madam,” the little man replied, subdued.  He had overstepped his bounds and he knew it.  He had to be clever now, before he and his current petition were dismissed to the Shreditorium.  “Madam, I apologize.”

 

Her head came up, eyes narrowed.  It was a known fact that in all the book halls of the world that false pleaders would grovel down into the very depths of the salt and pepper carpet to secure—nay, to beg—their moment of contact.  One had to be careful.  Prudent.  Alert.  “Go on, go on,” she encouraged.  “I am all interest.”  Her voice, however, did not have the ring of authenticity.  She was baiting the little man.

 

He wet his lips, not in a vulgar way by any means, but in a careful, substantial sort of way.  “My petitioner,” he began, clasping his hands together in front of his top button, neither high enough to signify ‘gut,’ nor low enough to signify ‘organ.’   It had to be neutral.  Everything hung upon his complete equanimity.  “My petitioner asks to be considered for,”—he paused, calculating.  He lowered his head a fraction.  “To be considered for,”—here it was—“Poetry.”

 

Several heartbeats passed.  There were one or two swallowings. 

 

“Do you know what this entails?” Madam Superior asked.  “Your petitioner may not change the request, after this.”

 

“No, Madam.”

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“Your petitioner may not return to this desk.  No matter what—”

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“No, Madam…”

 

“—I am not finished.  No matter what is written, no matter what is crossed out, torn up, or thrown out of the car window into the sea, neither if it’s at Dover nor Big Sur.”  

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“Yes, Madam.”  

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“There is no Facsimile Court of Appeal, no Interpretive Mode of Redress, no Review of Metaphorics, nor any Higher Hearing on the meaning of any of six of the seven parts of speech.  Only verbs may be so queried.  And I would heartily recommend that you council your petitioner against any such fantasy, theretofore.”

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The little man did not reply immediately.  Despite her ponderous indictments, he found within himself a welling up of the very same strengths that he’d felt the first time he’d come before Madam Superior, years ago.  “Yes, Madam,” he appended, after a moment of silence, an accent aigu to her impératif.  

 

“Are you sure of your petitioner’s request?”

 

“Yes, Madam.  I am quite sure.”

 

“So be it.”  Madam Superior raised her left hand.  “In nomine libris, et folii, et spiritus sancti, I now pronounce the petitioner granted, henceforth, to Poetry, to be inscribed upon that same page, whether in pencil or in pen, whether in Perfect or in Word, from this day forward, so long as his images shall strive.  Amen.”

 

Later, at the Inductees’ Reception, Madam Superior turned from a group of Romanistas to meet, face to face, with the little man, champagne flute in one hand and a shrimp puff in the other, golden crumbs cascading down his vest. 

 

“You?” she demanded flatly, peering down from her great height. “Don’t I know you from before?  You, yourself?  Didn’t you carry Midnight Ride?  Or was it the Hesperus?”

 

“No, Ma’am,” the little man said, bowing ever so slightly.  “I was the wet wheelbarrow.  With chickens.”    

 

Yvette Viets Flaten was born in Aurora, Colorado and was raised in a US Air Force family, living in Nevada, North Dakota, and Washington state, and overseas in England, France, and Spain. She received a BA in Spanish and an MA in history from the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire.

 

Yvette writes both award-winning fiction and poetry.  Her short stories have appeared in The London Reader, Summer Bludgeon, Lakefly, Wisconsin People and Ideas, Barstow and Grand, and Bang!  Her short story ‘Easy Out’ was nominated in 2023 by Barstow and Grand for a Pushcart Prize. Her short story ‘Blackberry Harvest’ is forthcoming in Sheila-Na-Gig.

 

Yvette is a life member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.  Her poetry has appeared in many journals, including Midwest Review, Avocet, Blue Heron Review, Hurricane Alice, Bramble, Ariel Anthology, and Nightingale and Sparrow. In 2023, Blue Heron Review nominated her poem ‘Beach’ for a Pushcart Prize, and she has work forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly.

 

Yvette is married to Daniel Flaten and has two grown children. She lives in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, near the banks of the Chippewa River, where she makes a point to write daily,following Sinclair Lewis’ exhortation to “make black marks on white paper.” 

 

Bienvenue à la Danse, Yvette.