Wordsmith by Malena Mayell (16, Oregon)

​I once scraped symbols into
my notebooks, discovered an oasis of divinity
hidden within a mess of muddled text. I felt the shackles loosen
as the words poured out. Mom cat dad hut rat. Look, see,
I’m a writer. I scrawl poems
into post-it notes when the teacher’s not

---

looking, stanzas of a verse they’ll never
read. It’s embarrassing, almost,
to turn in monotonous formations of half-
formed thoughts and exhibit but
the limitations of my creativity. Yet I turn to writing when
it’s not asked of me, ignore assignments
to string words together like linen
on a clothesline. Its sweet release
proclaims the deliberations I’ll never
voice. Tongue-tied, spellbound by
ink stains on paper. Sharp-edged shadows
linger in the crevices of
my bag - I don’t go anywhere
without a book. Masterful alliteration, configuration,
can we write more in English class? This
talent is my haven. Blame it on a woman
whose boots clicked when she
strode, shoulders back, chin up. A piercing
gaze that steadied mine
when she taught me to hold
the pen in my fingers and write. Loops and
curls, dot the i. I wrote you
a book, remember? 100 pages
of unguarded ambiance. I was only 8. A supernatural world
constructed out of nothing, hand you
a novel thick as a dictionary. (Don’t mind absent punctuation,
the borders thieving half the space.) Call it effort,
love if you will. Spruce
turned to pulp I would
hold in my hands, let it ooze into
the basin. Pulp to machine cut
slices I fill with idioms. Textured, blue pink green
or more likely white. Paper perpetually smooth like the words
I scan floating across the screen. Cursive
turned to typing but I’m still
composing, I promise.