S is for storytelling, for singsongs, soundscapes. S is for speaking slant as snake venom. S is for spindle and sage, for the sea witches who steal voices and lock them away in a shrine for safekeeping. See the submarine’s periscope in the San Francisco Bay. S could be for the secret keeper whose stories are sky-blue and slither out like silk bandanas. See Scheherazade, sleepless and sliding into the DMs of unsavory kings. S is for spondees and stormclouds and how ocean walls are soundproof. S is for silence, struggle. For skinny-dipping in a stream of synth, for Sally sells seashells under the floorboards. If S is for safety, it’s also for a stick of dynamite. S is for slighted stepmothers, where sixteenth birthdays turn to Stockholm syndrome. For a girl feeling sympatico with a room filled with stalagmites, solar systems, and feminine stink. See Sisyphus, that shmuck who shrunk to a small stone, sad shoulders slouching. See how the solstice can seldom become the sadist. S is for spells and walking into a good summer sleep. For stay the hell awake. S is the slow open of a screen door like a mouth told often to keep shut.