Let Me At My Name

My name means pearl, smooth and pale

The treasure nestled in the cleft of slender throat

A soft bow, a weak glow

The collar about a housewife immortalized on screen

No edges, soft simplicity

The pride of sorority, an insidious slur of fraternity.

Let me at my name

The label of my make, my assemblage

Turn those pale orbs to teeth

The sharp things that gleam brightly from dark corners

A grinned promise to cheat behind fanned cards

The warning to those who would pry me from my home

To string me around their necks

The bared reminder that there is bite in me

It has been a long week, and I didn’t have time to finish the normal fiction, so you all get punished with something vaguely resembling poetry. Mindlovemisery Menagerie‘s Wordle prompt is to blame!



Your hands are a coffin. Smooth as polished cyprus, strength in every knot and plane.  They keep me trapped and breathless within.

Their eyes are serum. Lapis lazuli and drunken lidded, mawkish in my gaze and on my tongue. They soothe and enable the heat of my skin.

I am brimstone. Buried by you and burning for them.

I am an acrobat, feet on the ground.

I blame Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and their Wordle Prompts for this unusual post. I will return to my normally scheduled fiction after Thanksgiving.