print previewback GRAHAM HILLARD
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. 
Oldest Squirrel Monkey in Captivity
The Polygrapher