7 Poems

Pencil

I sketch a poetic nun fast enough
the unwanted lines become a prayer,
the shading covered a multitude
of shortcomings, short dashes,
a multitude of paper. Pencil
against paper to draw a river
that finally swallows you is proof
that we could fall into our drawings,
our art. I choose to speak instead,
but I realise I can fall into my voice,
my words. Mute is blank on white paper.
The artist calls it suicide. I am torn in
between options, I am torn paper.

LARDO