The calligraphy brush my grandmother gave me, the quill
given unwittingly by an idol at age fourteen. There was no ceremony
no reverent handing over, just a slip under the table
late in the evening as I read with wide eyes

They took the deep blue font of a bare bones site
stealing the dim light of a computer screen glowing long after curfew
where words slowly learned to weave together and tell stories
that had never been told before, yet their heart was old and familiar

I begged them not to take the journal, royal purple
and covered in golden characters. When I pulled it back to my chest
the stick of cinnamon tied to the front was broken in two
and the silken cord holding it together was frayed
I salvaged what I could

They left me a broken quill with no ink, candles with no match
the bristles of my brush (forgive me, grandmother) cut short
and a journal where the smallest movement caused another page to flutter
uselessly, helplessly, to the floor

What could I do but start from the beginning
take back what they stole, the ink and paper
cut new bristles from my own hair
and write on