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
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
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
