My skin sack was taken to the Hall of Pictures
in the Capitol. My Zipps seemed made
to slide across the marble floor. Though
careful careful of my balance. So walked
slow as the other kids flew by. Slow
and serious skater. Past the paintings
and the statues of steel men in bowler
hats. Past the light bodies of young men
reaching, naked, snake bodies curled
around their calves. I paused to lay
my hands and forehead on and was told
Stop. A lake in the floor. A cistern.
We filled it with pennies, which were
wishes. Just one though. Not to be
greedy. Just one wish for myself I was
told.
All the way through the white
halls to where the rooms opened out.
And at the far end, alone on the wall,
black and white, like a newspaper
photo on a canvas: a throne powered
by lightning. Leather belts
like my father wore to work. But thicker.
And for the wrists and forehead.
At the center of the throne: a strap
like our bus driver unhooked
when he’d pull the yellow chariot over
to separate the young gladiators
huddled over me. So the body doesn’t bolt.
And on top, a shining mixing bowl, welcome
side down. Which we were told was the crown
that held the lightning in.
that held the lightning in.