bursting into
flame, my tireless inner editor
writes me out of the script
makes tick marks in the margin
scribbles on me with red (ball-point) pen
she pokes me with her terrible weapon
and suggests that I move on.
I've got this little nuclear device
and I'm not afraid to use it. love, me.
I spring up from my half-reclining position.
This is serious.
This is war.
I won't be written out so easily
my voice is steady even if my hands
(on the now-invisible keyboard)
are not--I challenge my inner editor
to a battle. Her pen against mine
winner take all manner of things
including the manuscript in question;
she drops the wire-rimmed glasses and
for an instant shows her true form: Censor.
Her biohazard-red pen drips. She's many
stories taller than I and her voice rings
with echoes of critics everywhere.
she doesn't fight clean, she uses the voices
of my schoolmates, parents, teachers,
rejection slips issue from her mouth
and her eyes are fiercely disapproving.
How dare I presume to release these words
into a world that may treat them ungently?
I suprise her
kiss her on the mouth
and above her eyes
and touch her fear
and say:
I understand.
But it takes more than either
bravery or faith to write;
it takes cunning,
a tolerance of drafts,
and paitence.
and, of course,
careful editing.
she collapses.
monster no longer
but still armed with that
Bic fine point red ink
and I set her working;
for one lasts longer
with a tireless inner editor
as long as the notes are made
in the margins and not on my body.