Wet Boots

My hand claimed the pulse in your neck,
Just loose enough for you to gasp.
The others closest to me
Lifted their chins in reverence.
Witness ruins our intimacy.

I gave you the knife.
You turned the blade inward.
My station was designed,
My duty began with your choice.
I’ll clean my soles with another’s life.

A drumbeat breaks the silence.
Someone shouts—
Inaudible from this distance.
The crowd hears only rhythm.
Why do they keep coming?

– Simon Rook