Sharpened pencils and new erasers
sit on the desk. I know what I will
write and how I will word my thoughts.
I look at the dorsum of my hands, the wrinkled
skin with fenestrated and sinuous veins
lying over the tendons, greyish blue–
No time to waste. My mind is made up
I have pages to fill, volumes to write. A
blessed childhood, neglected teenage
and an arranged marriage that was forced.
The pencil slips when it touches the paper
damn the arthritic knuckles, the loss of strength
Spirit wills, my age scoffs. I continue to pretend
I could write, and light my name in fire, to be
recognized. Except, it is burnt beyond recognition.©