There is a name
for the man with a hundred hands
who lies under your bed,
fifty mucked-up faces
for fifty bad-luck places
where your loved ones end up dead.

Rumpelstiltskin will not do.
Call him Briareos the Hecatoncheir
when his bone-breaking arms
reach up for you.

Call him Gyges, the fox,
sliding through your traps and lures;
Torquemada
when the dark door locks;
Haman, whispering to the jury;
Pharaoh, smiling in the hall;
******-
when the gas begins to fall.

You think you know him.
Do you?
Name him.
Or he will name your fate,
and you’ll hear it spoken
when the floor gives way.