Arcadia
I don’t need to understand
why there is a secret box
hidden behind a wall of books in the castle of my mind.
Or why, when I pull a blue book titled with the letter ‘A’,
I discover a key in my pocket that opens it,
and my mouth is filled with the word revenge.
Or why the dagger inside makes a promise with my sternum,
and the rage that I remember feels righteous.
Understanding is a fleece-lined cloak against the arctic unknown.
Instead, I stand under
the tree of possibility
and let the ice veneer us into the stillness of wonder.
I trace its timeline branches
I see the armor of a soldier who has just killed a woman
and I memorize his hand.
I feel my own hand ready on my blade.
I watch a fire burn in the reflection of my eternal pupils.
They are smiling inside of a defiant face
and saying Fuck You, as I die.
What kills me makes me stronger.
I remember a 12 year old girl
who didn’t know where to direct her fury.
We are screaming violently at my mother,
who is also trying to understand
what her daughter is rebelling against.
I recall the cab driver on the strip
reach into the back seat and caress my bare knee,
and how he looked straight into my guts
through the rear view mirror
with trembling, begging eyes.
My fingers brace the car door handle
but I don’t pull it.
I freeze.
I don’t yet know to reach for the key.
Still, my hand is ready on my blade.
I follow a limb labeled Future
and I am standing on the edge of the world watching it burn,
shoulder to shoulder with great men.
I am full of power.
I know I will save what is left of us.
Snow begins to fall softly.
I return, through the nearest branch, to the dream last week
of the old man with a woman’s body sewn onto his back.
He is sucking the life out of her flesh.
I relieve her of her suffering.
I beat him with a hammer-
smaller,
smaller,
smaller
until the pulp is absorbed by the snow.
The crystal ice begins to drip wet.
My eyes fill with tears.
My hand grips my ribs
where the hologram of imagination
pressed a promise into the center of my bones.
I look up, under
the wide-reaching arms of possibility,
and I whisper to my ancestors.
I ask my soul to point to the memories that are real.
My body gives me hints,
but only Silence responds.
And I smile.
I don’t need to understand.
I just need to open the box.