I often feel like the poems that I write for class for specific exercises require explanations, because they are so unlike the rest of my poems. The prompt for this poem was to write a “definition” for a word that you make up. My word was “affliteration” and this was my “definition.”
There is too little here to be worth mentioning. We have not yet undone the entire scarf, the twine fibers catch torn finger skins. We are slowed down.
The steel wool collects grease from the butter pan and little bits stick out like crooked pipe cleaners. We scrape sticks beneath our toenails but our bongs go clumped and resin.
She forgets how to play scrabble and spends the next six weeks drinking from the pipes beneath the kitchen sink. The frayed ends of skirt hems close their fists on our leftovers before feeding the metal mouth of the escalator.