Arthur

                        He sneaks under the covers at night

                                    While I sleep;

                        Climbs mutely into shoulders

                                    In the deep of dark;

                        Slips onto fingers and digs

                                    Upon joints and knuckles

                        In the cold starkness of a dreamless night.

                       

                        His grip tightens as he chuckles, I suppose.

                                    He knows what fun comes

                        To impose hurt on my helpless limbs

                                    To please his painful whims.

                        He nuzzles in my muscles, burrows into my space;

                                    And claims them as his own.

                        He is part boa and part beartrap

                                    He wraps around shoulders

                                    And clamps on my arms.

                        All done without a sound, no whisper, no alarm.

                        Pain greets the light of dawn:

                                    It aches to lie still.

                        To sit up brings pain.

                                    To raise an arm hurts.

                        A turn of the neck sends jolts down my back.

                        The only escape is to move

                                    And slowly break his grip.

                        Arthur writes us a tale of torment:

                                    Anguish of a body under siege.

                        In the angry clutches of his chains.

                                    Another day begins.

                                   

                                                                                    April 2018