Scrabble Game


Your rack is packed with consonants:

with pikes implacable, metallic palatals;

snick of the locked dentals. Fricatives chafe

like a starched ruff; and throttled in the throat,

the grudged angst of the glottal.


While mine, the other hand,

is an open pannier: loose withes of willow,

all full of kitten vowels,

roundbellied mewlers; young wolves

yowling for the moon’s tit.


Both of us blocked from play, moveless.

Unless my brood may climb

inside your armor for a sop of milk;

unless you post your ranks in mock-embrace

around me, so our unwords entwine.