The Tongan Death Grip Is a Sweet Way to Die
Our spring love slipped to summer
eating sweaty snails at the French restaurant
when I dropped what French I knew—
la petite morte—
they call every orgasm a little death.
Everyone knows that, you said.
Sink your fingers deep in
the dough. Knead it,
need it—make-your-own pizza dough
we were so worldly
when our love was new.
And we wrestled.
We lived the circus life together
into winter, never the same bed two nights
in a row. Recline the passenger
seat as far as it goes
one sleeps, one drives
fingers intertwined.
I opened my eyes in a snow flurry
half-dreaming, could’ve sworn
we flew through stars. Celestial now
astronauts or dead,
unbound. You untethered your fingers
messed up my hair, and told me go back to sleep.
I started using the Tongan Death Grip,
a camp finisher, more histrionics than hold.
But the fans bought into it
as savage and sinister
fingers curled beneath the victim’s chin.
Screams and spasms en route to slumber.
You asked me to put the Grip on you
a motel room outside New Orleans
with a floral bedspread, seascape on the wall.
Ticklish, you laughed at my touch
against your neck, then reddened
at my embarrassment.
Sorry, you said. You can give me
a little death anytime.
So I did.
Seasons into years into a lifetime.
Don’t lose your grip, I told myself
and me and I did not.
© Michael Chin
Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He’s the author of seven full-length books, including his novel, My Grandfather’s an Immigrant, and So is Yours (Cowboy Jamboree Press, 2021) and his latest short story collection This Year’s Ghost (JackLeg Press, 2025). His short work has previously appeared in journals including Bat City Review, Prairie Schooner, The Pinch, Passages North, and The Normal School. Find him online at miketchin.com.
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