A Woman Writes
Her pen scratches paper,
an immutable itch –
worse than cleg fly bites on skin.
Her ink tattoos scraps, unlined notebooks
and single sheets, virginal-white.
She is never relieved, never satisfied.
Furious scribbling or lazy, illegible scrawls,
she chases herstories smothered by history,
attempts to outrun gendered time,
and all those lies,
before she dies. Yet, her pen’s sound
soothes her agitated mind, ancient scribal music,
small acts of creation. Birth song to rare runes
that on occasion light her page, propel her
aging soul to express once-silenced truths,
ignite sparklers to scatter her night.
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