scraps of silk layered

on the cutting room floor,

pillbox hats in stacks

with pins to penetrate any guise.

and i, 

toyed with wooden beads 

that slid through my fingers

with the crack of an abacus

losing its count.

her feet pressed the pedal,

the needle hammer roar

of machine and fabric fusion.


there was a small pine box,

used to powder pearls,

like ivory rosaries 

they swathed the delicate 

throat hollow 

beneath my buttercup face,

the tender place,

now yearning for your

lingering kiss.


and this, 

the gray pearls,

the ones 

that could not be pasteled,

with their arrested gaze 

reflecting my own,

the color of the new moon,

a string of the same hue,


and i danced barefoot 

before mirrors,

one reflecting 

an illusion of height

the other making the world thin.

oh, but i was light 

radiating “girl”,

knowing the joy 

of its own distinct spin


© M.G. Iannucci 2017

Drawing: Woman with Beads


Dedicated to my grandmother, who was a seamstress, a creative genius, and a hard woman. She was one of nine, raised by a widowed mother during the Great Depression. Taking her designs to the fashion houses and runways of New York City, my grandmother always yearned to be noticed, for security, and for beauty. She manifested those desires through her work. I wish I had known to tell her, you only ever find them on the inside. Love takes many forms.

10 thoughts on “Transmutation

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