Three glasses in a triangle
—Brett Kavanaugh
Not that. I see a three-sided room. One wall
gleams of brimstone, globs of golden yellow
dripping molten beads that slide and run all
over. Sixty degrees, the angle to its fellow,
formed by flames hot as passion or a welder’s
torch, or sixty times as hot. The darkest room
in all Gehenna, this ungodly triune’s elder
guards the gate into this grisly fest of gloom:
a line of spinning pitchforks from the stinging
sulfur fumes to the wordless tongues that hiss
spit up sparks. A place for torture-slinging
villains only: a man who forsakes with a kiss,
a child-slicing ruler, a naked father, a bad guy
with a gun. Or do I look and see it’s all a lie?
TR Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, lives in San Mateo, California. A previous J Journal contributor, her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Booth, Aethlon, Jabberwock Review, Trajectory, The Raintown Review, Verdad, and others.