Ode to a lost pen,
cylindrical and black like all the others,
maybe a monolith
because its words were full of pith.

Memory of a left-behind pen,
placed on a table
next to a blank sheet of paper,
anxiety playing at preparedness.

Memoir for the life of a pen,
myriad journal entries and random thoughts
and important signatures and forgotten notes,
all clothed in ink the mother produced.

Movement toward a new pen,
more journaling and recording,
embracing the anathema to memory,
did it really happen if it didn’t happen
in ink?
Try to not forget her face.


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