The Polygrapher

Captain of an army of questions,

confederate of sweat, he will vanquish

all before him. Or timid, burrower

in a nest of tubes, he is mouselike,

deferential as the air within

the pneumograph. A liar,

I have seen him draw a spark

from skin, set a gland

afire. In his hand is clutched

a shock of nerves, small grains

he will gather to his table.

When his invitation comes, I dress

in scrolling paper, black needles

in my pockets, a tack turned upward

in my shoe. I test it with the tender

flesh of my foot, hear my pulse

protest. His study, arousal, is ancient,

secret as the promises of maidens.

Devotee of their language of shudders,

he will know them each in turn.