Then comes The adjective is an anachronism, a lullaby sung over a crib in a burning house. “Sweet” evokes innocence, honey, childhood, the sentimental. Sophia is not just any name; in Gnostic tradition, Sophia is the fallen divine feminine, the emanation of wisdom who desired to know the unknowable Father and, in her error, created the flawed material world. To call her “sweet” is to condescend to tragedy. It is the voice of the captor, the lover, the priest — all three maybe the same person — who domesticates her suffering. “Sweet Sophia, you know this is for your own good.” The sweetness is the sugar coating on the restraint.

The whole title reads as a case file from a detective who has given up on justice and turned to poetry. Or a Sadean inventory written by a monk. The dashes between the words are the bars of a cage. We, the readers, are voyeurs at a keyhole — another kind of hole — peering into a room where sweetness and restraint have become synonyms.

One might ask: Why write an essay about such a phrase? Because art, at its most honest, does not turn away from the knot where tenderness and cruelty are tied together. Holed – Sweet Sophia – Anal Restraint is a modern Pietà turned inside out. There is no resurrection promised. Only the date, ticking forward. Only the hole, waiting.