Dr. Jekyll

keeps the get-well cards and signs them

with extra ink. Sends the Thank Yous twice

as long and sinks the stamp into burning wax like a

vice he can’t let go of. Croons at weddings,

cries at funerals, brings extra pastries to

christenings, baby showers, PTA functions, and

let’s not forget, all those town-hall meetings. You swear

you’ll do better, a voice says, and he’s afraid to answer it.

But is everyone else making that same oath?

Do better. Try harder. Make up for the lack every-

one else is shaving away at to carve out time for

their own scrutiny. In the night that voice

takes a shape, turns Philosophy to warm, unsure

flesh. Will they love me if they knew me at all?

he asks and Mr. Hyde says Of course not.

Says You’re smart enough to know that now—

it’s you and me Forever, like a prayer in a burnt out church.

It’s a Gordian knot in your stomach no one can reach to cut.

It’s flocks of wild birds that inspires countless ballets about

Death; fluttering, fluttering, fluttering. His hands on

his chest. His lips on his lips. His body pressed against his body and

who is who, after all? In the wine-dark spill of moonlight, he says I’ll love you

and they’ll love your work. I’ll make sure of it.

That’s deception. That’s evil. That’s loyalty. That’s privacy. That’s reclamation.

That’s protection. That’s erotic. That’s empathy and pathos and deprivation. That’s

the first night he slept well in his entire life.

***

West Ambrose is a scrivener and performing artist. Check out his ever queer works at westofcanon.com. If you want anything published in The HLK quarterly or The Crow’s Nest, just ring for the masthead, and let them know.