INK SPELLS TRUTH

I stand, surrounded

by fog, see me from

across the room.

Curled in the corner

bent over white paper

afraid, pen in hand.

Knife under pillow,

truth frozen in fear

What is going on.

Memory comes,

write it down

use the pen.

No, don’t place

the awful truth

outside yourself.

Use the knife!

Cut the hand holding

the pen, ink would

make real this thing.

Better bloods random

pattern, than ink

that spells the truth.

-Betsy-

February 1987