Reemergence of the Noose

Some lamp sputters its dusty light across some desk. Some hand, shaking, works the strained rope, twisting and knifing, weaving, tugging tight a bellowing circle. Randy Travis, steamy drawl and hiccup on the staticky AM, backs the ritual of drooping loop. Sweat drips an awful hallelujah. God glares askance, but the artist doesn’t waver—wrists click cadence, knots become a path to what makes saviors. The sagging hoop bemoans a need to squeeze, its craving for a breath within the ring.