Take It

Take my will and my life.

No. Not my life.

Let me live until she comes, until I hitch her on my hip, until the spit-up on my shoulder crusts.

Let me have what you denied my mother. No. Not my life.

OK. Take my will.

No. Not if it means

I don’t get it my way.

That would be in all things— from my wardrobe to who gets to join my Book Group, what I eat,

No. Not if it means rice and beans six times a week.

OK. Take my pen.

Take the ink.

Flow it to your will.

Take it. But guarantee it’s blue.

Also let me pick the topic. OK. Not the pen.

How about the pencil?

It’s tight-packed stream of lead, its shavings twisted in the sharpener. Take my sharp-pointed pencil. Let it scratch the page, like a divining rod, bend when it hits water, essential element, practicing the loopy O’s of the Palmer Method, from first grade, hovering between the sturdy lines to corral meandering.

Let it scribble past the cheerful signposts called Middle School, graduation, the M.F.A., publication, the Pulitzer.

OK. Maybe not the Pulitzer. Let my pencil, trusty No. 2, as yellow as a school bus, let it be the one thing I surrender.

Let it go where you would have it go.

But please, leave me the eraser.