Son of Geraldine*

How many times this pen has been held, Son of Geraldine!
How many words it has traced!
Still, it behaves like it has no memory,
Produces no trace of an echo
Even as it writes the same words again
On a pale fresh page
With virgin clarity.

Only the pages remember,
For they are only written upon once.
They remember the force with which the ink flowed
And where it became tender.
When they age, their yellowness will only know
One touch.

Son of Geraldine, you had many lovers,
Your pen has written and discarded
Many works of passion.
Crumpled, they tumble to many corners of the world.
Your words touch the soil of every land,
In every language,
How mothered the tongue, notwithstanding.
Like pupils of a teacher who taught it well,
They carry your coloured words for lessons.

Son of Geraldine, your words remain
In whispered glory
On a last page torn with longing to breathe.
Your word lives
On the last page
Beneath their book's heavy heart.




*Not biological