I do not choose and do not opt that any of your prompts be cropped, I know that your third word is crop (whose past tense I have put up top, knowing that it wouldn’t do to alter any words that you picked to give us as a test, because I know that you know best.) So know that I did not intend
to add that “ped” and thus offend.
I wrote it in addition to
the “crop” word provided by you.
Minuscule but powerful, it causes us to shake. The most masculine among us have been known to quake and to seek protection whenever one is seen, for it is rumored that their punch is wicked mean. They inspire colorful language from the subjects of their strikes, because it’s understatement to simply scream out “Yikes!” when stricken by a scorpion. The occasion calls for more, and that is why the village priest was pardoned when he swore as he removed the host veil and was stung upon the hand, for though the Holy Father issued a reprimand for the sin of taking the name of Christ in vain, since the priest was still in shock and reeling in his pain, not one of his parishioners, it’s said, has censored him, for each and every one of them thanked God it wasn’t them!
Aunt Stella being silly at a family picnic. I was imitating her.
That first tidbit of food
that morsel of potato salad
or that sip of lemonade—
activates what April picnics
are fated to attract
as surely as ants—
predicted as a slight chance
for this vicinity,
but now diluvial
in their force.
“Did you know that the parts of letters all have names — including spines, shoulders, hairlines, ears, arms, legs, tails, and crotches?” (FromThe Complete Manual of Typography, A Guide to Setting Perfect Type,” by James Felici.) Thanks to Elizabeth Boquet for this information, which prompted this poem:
Body of Love
Stiff spine of its beginning, the bare shoulders of its attraction.
I trace the hairlines of your thoughts, whisper love poems into your ears.
Imagine you wrapped around me: arms, legs— that animal remembrance of primordial tails.
This is the crotch of poetry, giving birth to words. I offer you a bouquet of them .
One on my lap and one by my side, Queen-sized or king-sized, no matter how wide, I’m always pushed out to the edge of the bed. though I’d rather be in the middle, instead. The tinier dog snuggles close as she’s able, leaving me hanging out touching the table, while the little-bit-larger dog curls on my lap and no matter how much I wiggle or tap, she will not budge to allow me to shift. I know she considers her presence a gift. One burrows closer under my arm, as though by her presence she’s warding off harm, but it makes typing hard with my arm in the air, lest I disturb one of this bed-hogging pair.
Not fiction!!!!!! 5 a.m., weighted down and on the edge!!!!!