She’s found herself in ink and sky


and silent salt. The squawking cry
of hungry gulls. The broken praise

of trees. She’s on her knees in dark
-est hour, bone-tired and waiting.

Forgive her, Father (Son, and wholly
long-loved ghost)
; at most, she’s brave.

She’s sinned, and skinned her knees
on all these pavement skies, these

curbs and cried-out private cul-de
-sac backstreets. This is her con

-fession: forgiveness ain’t free. And she
knows that (ro-sham)beaux escape

to embered breeze. She’s 16 again, a
glorious disaster in alabaster skin,

flush with protest and promise. She’s
rarely sorry, never sane, lost in a

weather vane of just-found true north
wind. She is scribbler, smudger, scribe.

Describe her with a hint of haunt,
the pinch of sturdy pen-cap pen

-chant. I can’t imagine her wild am
-bitious heart passing through any other

place. These shaky hands (against all odds)
are starving for this toxic love-hate page.


In November, we poem and poem. This is the one with all the prompts. 


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