The First Word

on new year’s furrowed brow,
the first word,
a secret anointing,
that remembers,
that clotted ink on the silver nib
is smile residue,
but tangled lines,
like medusa’s curls
turn poetry to stone,
drip venom into its metered abscesses…
already blue veined wings flutter.

Quadrille: a 44 word poem
Linked to the Dverse Poets (Prompt: Curl)