He was a wolf …
a solitary wolf culled from the pack
expertly herding his words
through her undulate terrain.
She welcomed the seduction
amply savoring his patois.
Beguiled by his seeming intimacy
she failed to assimilate the slow infestation
of his oblique aural patternings
insinuating edgy consonants
and limbic vowel howls.
It was her stomach at first that resisted the enchantment
with small flutterings of continual distress.
Slowly she became aware
that his words were predictable
acid but effervescent
lying tips of tongues
corroding her silence.
They dangled from her
like wind chimes with little meaning
Their fractured light cascading
from her now weary ears
pummeling the surface.
So she gathered herself
and sent him,
and his errant words,
Though at times she could still hear their echoing…
The scent of him having so easily
permeated her skin.
To ward off this sonic residue
she bathed daily in lovage root and vervain
and made a tincture of his words,
a verbal potion dissolved in fine brandy
She took one dose timed exactly
as the cusp of the horizon split day into night
Three drops under her tongue,
with a twist…
I had fun with this one. Looking over older work I saw a story weaving between a few different poems and so I threaded a needle and sewed them together. The drawing is an old one too. Newer than the poems, it is cut from the same cloth.
PoePoem and drawing: jana h white Drawing: Pastels on black paper