For I Am the Ink, the Pen, and the Hand

By Tyler McDonald

For my hands tremble at the desk,

dancing above the permanent ink stains,

smearing words that make out the grotesque,

the father, his pawn, and the mortal lover.

Hot flames, red and boiling, smear my skin down

onto the startled paper, its tender moisture rips

from the murky sweat of a maimed crown

and the unwieldy pen still quivers like an earthquake.

The edges of the letter tear like ivory clothes

on my wounded chest, my wrists, and my pores

that hang heavenly like unjust, yet perfect prose

as my talons stretch and thrash at what belongs to you.

Blonde hairs fall like late November rain,

and lionized yellow hides behind the curtains

of the sky where I drop my calamitous crane,

hauling down a vain collection of dates and diction.

The pen of blue, or red, no matter the narration

bursts out upon the wooded desk, the strained grip

of a lost concept, a love letter lost in translation

now intangible, to never be read by the undeserved,

for they will never know.

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Tyler McDonald is a first-year at the University of Cincinnati studying Professional and Creative Writing.

Featured art: Handen die een ets maken by Sir Francis Seymour-Haden