“Pencil” by Marianne Boruch

Marianne Boruch
My drawing teacher said: Lookthinkmake a mark.
Look, I told myself.
And waited to be marked.
xxxxx
Clouds are white but they darken
with rain. Even a child blurs them back
to little woolies on a hillside, little
bundles without legs. Look, my teacher
would surely tell me, they’re nothing
xxxxx
like that. Like that: the lie. Like that: the poem.
She said: Respond to the heaviest part
of the figure first. Density is
form. That I keep hearing destiny
xxxxx
is not a mark of character. Like pilgrimage
once morphed to mirage in a noisy room, someone
so earnest at my ear. Then marriage slid.
Mir-aageMir-aage, I heard the famous poet let loose
awry into her microphone, triumphant.
xxxxx
The figure to be drawn —
not even half my age. She’s completely
emptied her face for this job of standing still an hour.
Look. Okay. But the little
xxxxx
dream in there, inside the think
that comes next. A pencil in my hand, its secret life
is charcoal, the wood already burnt,
a sacrifice.
xxxxx
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One Response to “Pencil” by Marianne Boruch

  1. Jerome Bloom says:

    AND
    WHATOF
    YOURJAR
    OF PENCILENDS
    ORPENCILBEGINS

    WHAT DO THEY FORTELL

    WILL THEY
    HOLD THEIRSTORIES
    BOTTLEDUP
    WAITINGFOR
    RELEASE

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