by Shana Huang
An assortment of glittery rainbow pens spills out of my
Pencil pouch, each emblazoned with emblems that
Signal the spectrum of the stories they write.
I consider the colors they hold, the patterns that I
Might choose on another busy night.
Blue is deep and royal, containing lines of
Ink containing specks of silver, that paint the page with
Poetry. My fingers grasp Blue, and I begin to draw a story
With words.
I get like this when I write poems sometimes,
My mind-melding with the page,
Until I scribble unintelligible words in Blue
Only I understand. Sometimes I
Wonder what I am thinking, saying,
Shaping. My fingers hold blisters from years of
Using No. 2 pencils— the best kind
According to my third-grade teacher.
If I had considered using other instruments,
Such as mechanical pencils or perhaps even pens,
I can imagine the smoothness of my skin, my fingers
Missing masses of leather, instead grasping
Leather grips bound to metal cylinders
Boasting ink that people use to boast
With words written on white parchment
Passed out by professors, purchased by
Institutions, where politicians disparage the
Price of education; inevitably, some lead, or perhaps
Ink, would stain my fingertips, mapping out my
Fingerprints, bleeding downward in rhetorical purpose
Until a poem is written in my palm.
