If / Then…

Well I had a draft of this but cannot find it saved anywhere, so here goes again…

Last week my classmate Sara and I took a little time after Project Outreach to do some additional work. We did back-and-forth poems using the framework of “If / then…” One person wrote a statement beginning “If [something]” and then passed it to the other, who finished the phrase with “then [something else].” I delineated different voices with bold text below, but it makes more sense seeing it. Sara may eventually post hers on her excellent co-curated blog here but you should really follow her blog regardless.

I think later tonight or tomorrow I may post some of the work from today’s class but I may also just goof off for awhile. Spring Break is next week and I may use the time to keep writing my novel…though now I have a second novel officially in the works. (The first still has no title but the second is called [for now] Children of Goddard.)

Thanks again for reading!

~T

*

“If / Then…”

If time stood still, then minutes and seconds and hourdayweekyears would all wriggle into string theory space soup.

If mattresses were made of bumblebees, then we would have to invent new bedtime stories and learn new ways to whisper them.

If trees grew even after they fell, then we’d live in a great web of roots and lumber, the fern gully matrix, no stars to be seen.

If candles dripped honey instead of wax, then the target of the Revolution would be lightbulbs and we’d illuminate our paths at the same time we sweetened our tongues.

If the ocean had a drain and someone unclogged it, it wouldn’t take long for a wayward blue whale to swirl on down and stop it up again.

If we could live in eggshells and lost left shoes, then the marketplace of sandals would be people by agents and chickens would be our protectors.

If our voices came out of our mouths in torrents of water, then we would speak in careful hurricanes, all the wet volumes, the currents and floods.

If we were inflatable like balloons or air mattresses, then we would learn to walk shoeless, for our windpipes would be on our big toes and we’d have to ask for help more often.

If we took risks and were rewarded with flags, then blue would mean wet and alive and the stockpile of red flags would be taped to headstones.

If nocturnal meant dissolving around all the dotted lines, then we’d lay siege to the sun to keep us in perpetual darkness, no more night just nocturne.

If we used animals as diplomats and wilderness was a peace conference, then presidents would study by watching creeks meet the sea and offices would all be membranethin glass.

If flowers and vegetables screamed when we cut them, then our chefs would be deaf until we learned to eat words.

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