The Silver Metal Lover

“Please call me,” I said, “Jane.” “Jane,” he said. “Jane, a pane of crystal, the sound of rain falling on the silken grain of marble, a slender, pale chain of a name.” “Don’t,” I said. “Why not?” “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s too easy for you. Nobody ever made a poem out of my name, and you can do it with anything. It’s a very ordinary name.” “But the sound,” he said, “the sheer phonetic sound, is clean and clear and beautiful. Think about it. You never have until now.” Amazed, I lifted my head. “Jane,” I said, tasting my name, hearing my name. “Jaen. Jain.”