I wanted to write Speak, but it wrote Spark. 
Loaded with cartridges, it rested on the desk. 
No one dropped it or chewed the tip

but its tactics grew underhand. I tried to write 

Je suis Européenne. It spoke for itself. Je suis Iranienne.

I unscrewed nib from body. Inside, a pipeline of what 
stirred in the Cretaceous, freighted and volatile. Oceans, 
continents shifted. The drillbit woke it to burn, liquid

to solid carbon-black, changing state back to ink. 
Indelible blots: my hands smudged shirts, doors, tables. 
Each murky fingermark printed a tiny globe,

fuel-lines from Persian Gulf to Gulf of Mexico.

A newspaper flapped to the doormat: slicked gull’s 
wings. EVERYTHING WRITTEN IN FIRE AND OIL.
I tried to sketch a cottage, so the gift drew smoking 
rubble. A blazing refinery spoke to my line 
Thank you for this beautiful Waterman pen.

Yvonne Reddick is an award-winning writer, editor and ecopoetry scholar. This poem is taken from her first full collection, Burning Season (Bloodaxe Books 2023).

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com.