The Initiatic Well


The Initiatic Well


Arriving in Hell. I thought I would sweat but I stumble in the chilly dark.

Spiral staircase with landings. Law doesn’t apply, rules of the game do.

Don’t we call it summering, this camp. Three weeks per year, addictive.

Foggy slopes. I’m approaching some escape, aren’t I?

Grotesques – once they might’ve been gargoyles, spouting water.

Home: where light is not random but parents say AAA to show teeth.

July’s ovens are far. Go to hell, they said. I nodded in a sloth manner.

Key-necklace confiscated. Unmailed postcards home signed Vic.

Leda’s Cave, tunnels with chapels, an inverted tower.

Learn what ‘hot’ means.

Zig-zag hopes. Grottoes at entry points, a Springfall Lake.

Xmas-like sparktreat with no personal objects, prof-looked-down ‘pacifiers’.

Carved, uneven steps. I focus on my breath, adjust my blindfold.

Vic for victim, Vic for victor.

Dante was different, books are different.

Being touched is a privilege, you’re not a pussy. Though you may be a vector.

Not for everyone. The Professor’s choice.

What ‘colder than a witch’s tit’ means…

My code-name is Tepid. Is it war? I neither march nor surrender.


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