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.