Wordle #190 “Sty”


Words by Brenda Warren

Your cape curls at the edges,

Whipping froth from a lingering haze.

I fillet you from grin to scrotum,

Exchanging one cave for another.

Our symmetry is incompatible

I retract my claws, the strain of blood

Traipsing over my favorite blouse.

If only a sculptor then perhaps

My love wouldn’t be so deranged.


The chains sustaining my ancestry

Dig in another quarter inch

Cutting off all access routes.

The circus is still in progress

Inflamed clowns feign

Behind a barbwire sty.

We are the people our wounds dictate

And nothing offends more than comparison.