Release

Mr. Tock and his son Tick wrap around
my wrist. How often they’ve crossed,
I’ve lost track. I was busy watching
Adam’s fingers slide across the mouth
of my empty, wet glass. He takes my
hand and I’m now spinning on the floor.


Enthralled thrashers bang their heads
in reverence to the Black Queen. From
her garden, dark rose petals stir and rise
within my stomach. And the hand that
took mine constricts the thousands
of small springs that are being uncoiled
all over my palm and down each finger.

Even a top that once spun still turns,
and inside I’m whirling. Adam’s gaze
is unbending. “I’ve gotta pee,” I shout.
I stumble into the men’s restroom and
I am deafened by now muted sounds.
Never have I been so religious, but now
I am compelled to kneel before the altar
and offer a tithe from within. Every last
black rose petal comes rushing to flush
out of my throat. It does not appease
the god whose gaping mouth summons
me close enough to taste the piss and shit
smell that permeates this hallowed hell.

I linger at this fountain of filth as if praying
until I am lifted to my feet. I am Forgiven
by my savior who has warrant to trespass
and possess my Temple with thieving paws
that tickle my abdomen. His finger traces
my neck and jaw, then slides across my lips.
The silver cord around my waist is loosed,
in hopes of fulfilling the emptiness within
and my control is relinquished unto him.