Splattered on napkins, notecards, or old printouts
from flights or nightstands in a Memphis bedroom
Scratched upon, all inky from heart pumping inspiration
Adrenalin lit in Paris cafes, in Oxford halls,
from San Francisco bay windows, or eerie alleys in Kafka’s Prague

yet

Woolf, Plath, Neruda, Marquez, Dickinson, Salinger,
Whitman, Twain too

How can I chase after your impressions?
How can I reveal what’s now to my eye just invisible ink?

The weight of your voices, your pathos too
bubble beneath me
swirl within my circuits
They halt my heavy pen
And yet, I collect pages, letters typed or writ like others collect titles, dollars, or lovers.

Van Gogh, Picasso, Degas, O’Keefe, Kahlo, Rivera, Haring,
Basquiat and so on

Can I still flower beneath your seasoned shadows?
Can I call myself a Writer?

 

Kristin L. Wolfe is currently a freelance writer and instructor in SVA’s Humanities department. She is also completing an MFA in Nonfiction at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. She writes cultural pieces for various publications, book reviews for Publishers Weekly, and is shopping around a young adult novel called Sometimes Weeds Are Pretty.