Every Sunday some writer friends and I get together and each build a poem around a chosen word or theme, literal or figurative, stated or suggested. It’s good for the arty muscles. And to dig out those things that tend to collect deep down. This week’s word was: etiolate.

~.~

the etymology of a thing, its bare root, a genesis
saccharum, saccharon, sarkara, saccharine
recognizable sign posts, and warnings
that we should be in familiar territory
in that way that we all recognize the nature of an old lover
in a new one

the instinct of a hominid, its bald need, a believing
sancto, sanctus, sacrosanct, sanctuary
we are bred for gists, and for patterns
that we should be versions of the same
in that way that we all find our way home in the figurative dark
or on a cold morning

the magnetics of a refusal, its blanched discord, a problem
étioler, etule, esteule, etiolate
these are the risks, and the amnesias
that we should step out of the pattern
in that way that this twice-folded page isn’t so much a poem as
an idea

{ti}