Sara Elin, my adoring wife
got me new pens
sleek things,
like scalpels for the soul.I used to wrestle the words
onto pulp,
dragging stainless steel
across pock-marked pages,
carving little divots
like some hack golfer
trapped in the rough.Holes still cover my neck.
But now the words slip off
the nib like they’ve been waiting
and I’m worried
I won’t keep up.What if they come out too fast?
What if they spill the truth
before I’ve had a chance
to ruin it?
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