A Multi-Hundred Dollar Pen Couldn’t
Pen a Better Poem
Kailee Parsons
I don’t need a
multi-hundred dollar pen, no matter how beautiful it is
(even a pen with the free-flowing blue ink,
that you bought in a small jar
at that corner shop in Venice,
that you have to replace every six months
when you’ve written too many words,
because I would be changing that pen every day).
I don’t need a
pen with a gentle, delicate tip
that allows for “minimum pressure on the hand and therefore minimizes hand cramps.”
No, I need a couple dozen of those everyday,
dime-a-dozen ballpoint pens that you can get
at the front desk of every car dealership and eye doctor’s,
that you click to open and close.
I don’t care that they run out and dry up
eventually, because they have been put to good use.
I don’t want to be afraid of breaking my pen
when I dig into the anger, hurt, confusion, beauty, longing, and nostalgia of a moment,
when I press a little harder, faster, more desperately on the paper
in a rush to get it all down before it consumes me whole,
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