Ode to my Golden Pen

(It had to happen and here it is.

a phantom that became a reality)

 

I love you golden pen

although sometimes I hate you

the way in the morning

you climb into my warm bed

push the blanket from my face

shake my shoulder

shout in my ear

up and at it

 

and I

paralysed by

the fatigue of all the years

foraging in the valley

gathering splinters

out of reluctant matter, say

 

I have become

a tiny tree of bone

bent and crooked

the way of all things in this country

rain, snow, sleet, hail just when the crop is emerging

so just go away

let me sleep

 

instead

you trace the lines of my face

the one carved by

the man

with eyes of stone

his head on his fist

his fist on his knee

the one cut by the girl

with red painted toenails, white

shoes, a sling strap and little cutouts

 

all that was excavated from the earth

the characters I have loved

their confusions

 

you lift my stinging eyelids

one by one

into the light

the morning sunPen

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