Aiya! Forgot to post yesterday’s draft. Kalamai. Here’s my draft for Pōʻalima/Friday 09.27.19.
Prelude to Some Drama
and they’re in the park, Vilas.
She loves picnics, he doesn’t.
Her idea of a picnic is filling
a huge wicker basket
with cheese, French bread, and wine.
Very well balanced but . . .
It feels like rain,
except not the wet kind.
He is lactose intolerant, doesn’t like
crusty bread because it cuts up
the roof of his mouth,
and wine makes it hard
for him to breathe. Never eats fruit.
Gives him the runs.
The large dry drops begin to plop.
He says nothing, afraid
she’ll take her love away,
pack it all up, pull the blanket out
from under him, set him tumbling.
He’s beginning to shrink in the dry.
She’s a strong-willed woman
he could marry, despite
her discomforting picnic penchant.
But a man can only take so much.
Even in Wisconsin.
“Did you bring an umbrella?” he asks.
She stops slicing the bread that will bleed,
looks up at him, her odd sharp
steel gray eyes flashing.
“Why would you need an umbrella
on a perfect day like this?”
“You never know,” he says, the dry
really coming down now.
“You’re weird,” she says. “Eat
some apple.” She hands him a slice.
He’s soaked now, to the bone,
forces himself to take a tiny bite,
knows how this is all going to end.
The arid deluge comes down.
There’s no sacrifice too great.
The chance of immortal love.
* * * * *
The word is
Use it in, or to inspire, any kind of writing, then post what you came up with as a comment below. I would love to read what you write.