Oh, my Adam. Show care with the naming of things. That strange dieresis will be the end of us. Death is born from your names that divide and chop too finely. There’s a certain ticking, a metronome in our blood, our brood, our breed. Are we bleeding time?

As the night suspires listen to the sibilant whispers like the swishing of satin ribbons. Hear the soft far-off cawing of ravens and crows. Take your tongue from your ear, my Adam, and hear.

Look at the moon in this darkness doubly dark. See the prism dispersing light through our miasma. Taste the bitter wormwood spilling from our trees, and smell the rotting from your dank labyrinth of labels. Can you feel the augury whispering through our calcified bones, through your missing sinistral rib?

Oh, hear the ticking, Adam, the ticking of names and titles, the trick of time and tombs. Lilith’s eyes are not jaundiced. Tonight the owl glows golden. Oh, Adam, beware the treacherous treason of names.

Bio: Pamelyn Casto