Inheritance Cistern Sweet Dominion

They had their lightning thrones they had 
their cages. They had their lamb pens and lamb 
ties not just for lambs but for their own. As soon 
as I understood the name of my skin sack 
I was handed the chain. Was told by virtue 
of my snow-lit skin I was Courtier 
of the Chain. And could be Lord Chancellor 
if I played my cards right. Dominion. We worked 
the word over and over. We practiced with butterscotch 
and Jolly Ranchers in the gold Honda. In the mile-long 
yellow chariot that ferried us to the Coliseum. 
So sweet. No need to bite down for the whole world 
to hear you. No need to work your jaws 
like an animal. To make yourself into an animal.

But also. Useful to think like an animal. To know 
what that smelled like. That fear. My little skin 
sack and really such a weakling who wept 
over the stupidest things. Particularly 
when waiting for the long yellow chariot. 
I want to go home. To where? That was the rub. 
No more home for me. If there ever was one. 
I pitied myself. Little skin sack with the young wolves 
circling in their gladiator suits. Heart refusing 
to harden. But. The taste of hatred::

the sweet promise of that possible release. 
In the annals of my light scroll when and if the 
Light takes me back, it will be impossible to deny. 
After the kicks and taunts. After hours eating 
Salisbury steak over the toilet in the girls’ 
restroom. After the turnaway the plague 
game, bottles of piss and spit thrown from passing 
chariots as I made my way to the fairgrounds 
on foot? They made a wager and let a lamb sack out 
before me. And battered it. And battered it. 
But all the while looking at me. Who laughed 
along with them. My relief inexhaustible

as my desolation the next day when, having 
shown myself to lamb and wolf entirely, 
I was given my true calling. Which was exile 
from every realm.