By:  Jessica Goody

The tyranny of the blank page,
mockingly white, like the frustration
of my barren mind, seeking rich, rambling words,

metaphors with plenty of meat on the bone.
I gather synonyms to strew on the page,
berry-picking phrases like a pearl diver

among the oysterbeds, counting every
syllable, seeking precision, tasting the
flavors of distant languages as I struggle

toward plausible rhymes. I am a surgeon,
suturing phrases in neat rows like stitches,
transferring images from the mind’s eye

onto pristine pages, the ink stark against
the white paper windowpane.The words
are stretched across the page as tightly

as drumskins, the singsong rhythm of
the sonnet rendered by the silver scalpel
of the fountain pen.