Sculpture by Jennifer MaestreGraphite slips pale, shy
around strangers, cold
as a greyhound’s nostril.
I kick off my shoes
under the table, scribble
about feelings of well-being,
glossy, slick, the right
to be afraid, but not to talk
about it. It’s interesting to see
just how bad, bad writing can be,
grayscale, metallic, like old
paper clips and small change.
I go back and cross a ‘T’;
I can always tell
when ‘T’s’ itch a page.
Go ahead, maybe I like it.
Scratch; since some wounds
must bleed for a while and
November is for pencils.
Tess Kincaid
November 12, 2010
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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