A friend of mine called me
a wordsmith,
so I spent the day sampling
the absurd notion.

I thought of blacksmiths; of
their backbreaking craft,
that blistering heat,
the metal.

I thought of rough and
callused hands
hammering red iron,
of water tasting
wrought culture.

“Wordsmith,” I say,
hammering the syllables
between my clanging teeth.

My mouth is a thin line
as I dip my hot breath
and tongue

in the hard consonants,
laughing at the thought that
steam would billow out with them.