Category: poieō

Sara Elin, my adoring wifegot me new penssleek things,like scalpels for the soul. I used to wrestle the wordsonto pulp,dragging stainless steelacross pock-marked pages,carving little divotslike some hack golfertrapped in the rough. Holes still cover my neck.But now the words slip offthe nib like they’ve been waitingand I’m worriedI won’t keep up. What if they…