once
i loved
a woman
with
ink felt
fingertips
who clawed them
across
walls
and windows
in abstract
patterns
an erratic
reaction
to any
shade of
passerby
fading into
or out of
her life

and i ever
awestruck
stuck face
against
clear plate
glass
in utter
fascination
following
the imprint
of each
epidermal
ridge
with which
she sensed
vibration
blowing
butterfly
kisses
from
beneath
the bowels
of my lungs
with a
feather soft
futility
that found
her person
unimpressed
with first
impressions

nestled
in my eye
her
pentameter
pushed
pressure
points
upon my
pupil
carving
closet
space
inside
my cornea
etched
intaglio
underneath
my eyelid
inked me
permanently
that
i can’t
blink
but think
of you

and yet
irony is
delicious
in that
i know never
when i
will savor
the full
fragance
her presence
again

until then
i refuse
to write

i will
spite you
and every
woman writer
like you
despite this
grin
i wear
whilst seeing
you recite
or write
the most
minute
forms of
foresight
i don’t
like you
woman writer!

and it won’t
matter
that your pen
hovers lighter
than hummingbirds
for hire
i take pleasure
in the fact
that it takes me
twice the time
to construct
each line
with a
transparent
justification
that it is
the sign
of every great
writer

while i was
studying classics
you were busy
burning pen
pricks
in the pages
of your journal

i chose
advanced
composition
you wrote
a lament
to mourn
the passing
of your
adolescence

i sought
lessons
from
professors
professing
to be
the best
at
word craft

you
handcrafted
a chapbook
of seven
cinquain
into an
off broadway
one woman
production

you write
and i wait
for i recall
there was
a time
when the
writing
was about me
and i imagined
your greatness
painting
on a canvas
too small
so i
stroked
a viola
of the
bonfire
of your
vanity
until it
flickered
into wild fire
and fame
became
a flame
self sustaining
then
the writing
was no longer
about me
what once
was p(en)timate
now profane

and i
wonder
if there
be a reason
why
i should
ever
write
again.

laydownmylifeforyourpen!

the aoidolater

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