Today in the Allographic workshop (Finding the Narrative, with Matt MacDonald), we put together twelve words/ phrases between us with which to make a poem. They were: sand, running, floculant (thanks, Emma!), it, 2001, Caribbean, the sensation of cat's fur under fingertips, Justine, green, teeth, winnowing, bloody.
I cheated slightly (you're supposed to work all the words in explicitly), but hey...
Your footsteps are already fading,
The sand winnows into plumes,
Ash-breathed, kiting westward.
We have said nothing,
Loud enough to break glass.
I suck silence from between my teeth,
Start to make lists.
I still run, hunting calf-burn,
Celebrate heat in the clang of
Ambitiously green liquids in
I coo between gritted teeth,
Inch, bark-bellied, as you advise from below,
Summon the sensation of cat fur
To reaching fingertips, clench thighs against
A blue-and-white summons:
Justine has friended you.
Gape at the warmth of shallow waters,
The sudden fan of creases
I will never feel beneath my thumb.
Find myself on the driveway,
Stale cigarette smoke tugged into my lungs.
My kitchen is a haven of strange scents,
Abruptly, I am someone with a steamer,
And buckwheat tea.
You dab dots of jerk seasoning,
Suck your finger, grin.
The steamer falls, to be attended later.
"Wow, where did you learn that?!"
I lie with a nameless book.
'Floculant' is your word - a nest of
Tiny morning dreads.
I emerge into cotton mouth,
Iron filing dregs like sweet penance.
A half-known ache pulling me to my right,
Your comma shape a gravity well.
He packs the bloody space with cotton wool,
I breathe the bitterness of
Doing the right thing.
You are salt water on my chest,
A shuddering warmth calling my arms,
A coiling strike upwards at my throat,
A tsunami in slow motion.
I click, gaze, scroll west,
Ease shoulders into unfelt heat.
It's good to see you made it, after all.