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.

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