calligraphy

ink is bitter.
all these hours spent
chewing on pens
nibbling the ends of brushes;

purple-black is mellow, red is thin,
green is indescribably sour. Watercolors
are dusty. I couldn't resist
licking my fingers.

I have telltales around my mouth.
I appear to have been eating books
but it's just ink, everything goes
into my mouth at some point,
love means willingness to swallow

and I love many things
some of which are not good for me.

Lick, pinch, tuck the brush
behind my ear, use my nails
and my fingers to trace
white lines in the azure of a bowl.
There will be stars, after firing.
There will be words, after the fire.

Porcelain constellations.
I sign my name
and consign the bowl
to the glaze and the fire.