By Annette Marie Hyder


Your tongue tries on each word,delicately
so that every thing you say is a perfect fit —
a glass slipper or elven cobble
but with the devil to pay for the rouge of its hue.
Your words join hands and form into sentences
never languish wilting shyly against a wall
but become stories
of dancing princesses
and bloody ogres
that enchant and repel equally
as you lick your way to shivery endings
that have even the seams of the stockings
on that slippered tongue
neat as a pin
but stitched to the skin.