He touches the nape of her neck and undoes
the clasp of her bra, breaks the lock, and
rescues her over and over. He pulls her yellow hair
from her face. It spills over the cold stone
floor. She needs him; he’s made her
stop crying over captivity. He spins
the strewn straw on the ground thick
with gold. She gives him the silver chain
that hangs in her throat’s hollow. She gives
him a dull ring and he twists her neck
toward the split threshold. He bends his mouth
to her ear, “You’re mine now.” She sighs,
opens her eyes, looks to where he’s breeched
the cell. She smiles. He’s left the door ajar.
Karen Janowsky is a yoga instructor and adjunct professor at the College of Southern Maryland in Leonardtown, MD. She holds a M.A. in creative writing from Florida State University, where she served as the poetry editor for The Southeastern Review. Recent poetry and fiction has been published in Iron Doves: A Charity Anthology, Howl 2016, The Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase, The Wardrobe, The Maryland Poetry Review and The Antietem Review.
Artwork: Laura Makabresku