Polly dropped by yesterday
with a gift in her hands. The present was wrapped in what appeared to be old
recycled paper, crinkled and tied with twine.
Polly told me, “I waited
until you’d finished your novel to give this to you.”
We were sitting on the sofa
in my office, sisters in heart and spirit. As I opened the package, I
inhaled the rich scent of leather. Inside, I discovered a red leather book. I
asked, “What is this?”
And Polly explained she had
given me a poetry journal. She went on to point out a flaw in the leather. “Natural
scars are used in every design.”
For more than a year I had been too
busy to write poetry. My days and nights had been spent writing Dogwood Blues, a novel.
I love found items
and objects with scars and blemishes, rust from the past. The paper of my journal is aged
parchment and the journal itself is made of bull or cowhide, rough with texture—the
feel of calluses against the pads of my fingers. The buttons are huge and turquoise. When I flipped through
the pages, I found a leather bookmark. Every single thing about the gift, from
the package to the bookmark, felt sacred to me.
And now, it is time to write
a blemished poem. Words will slip from my tongue like old scars. At times, when the need to write hits me, I do feel as though my mouth is stuffed with blemished words, words that need life.
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