My fingers make the pen dance across the page,
sharp loops of script or the bold lines of my font
as I write a short reminder, a postcard, a to-do list,
my movements precise as each line hits the mark,
strings together the thoughts and sentences.
Too soon, the movements falter, a stumble
in the rhythm as the familiar ache returns
to the inside of my wrist, the tender burning
in the back of hand, the sharp burn in the elbow.
Each movement becomes a labor, a concerted
effort to keep the movement going, to press on
until the whole idea has filled the space,
because what is a writer that cannot use a pen.