Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
It's not real lead,
a baby wouldn't die from it.
It's carbon and clay, mixed
to the hardness or softness desired.
The painted wood is good to chew on,
something to do with the molars
when the brain begins to fidget.
When you hold the pencil in the writing hand
the other hand flattens, reaching for the skin
of paper. Slowly, a thin company of letters
becomes the skeleton of a poem.
Eraser sits smug and pink at the top
within a gold crown, moves toward
destroying everything on the line.
But the six-sided wonder
lurches forward like a spider
on its graphite path,
undeterred, spinning together
past, present, future, with one thread.
Marilyn Churchill, Ann Arbor
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