Tonight's Poet Corner: Dynasty

Dynasty

by Belinda Roddie

Last time you said you loved me,

I swore to you that I would upend

your world like a chessboard, checkmate

the king so the queen could take

control of this glorious realm. I

held stars in both my hands and let them

burn my skin, each follicle of hair

left on my flesh bursting into

miniature fireworks before descending

like strings of phoenix feather confetti.

You told me to break my own teeth and patch

them with steel, replace my spine with

a lightning rod, stand outside in the middle

of a storm and let Mother Nature kiss

me so hard that my body flopped like a fish.

I flipped tables in empty bars, drank

absinthe and poison and developed

an immunity to both. I dodged the harder

contraband, but you managed to slip ecstasy

in the form of a touch into my cup of

decaffeinated tea, and suddenly, I was

more awake than I had ever been in the last

seven years. I was supposed to be

revolutionary. I was supposed to turn the

tides for you, transform water into wine

for you, break world records just with

a smile and a laugh, follow you on tightropes

until we reached skyscrapers. I told you

I'd carry you to the ends of the galaxy,

just to see if it was exactly like Earth,

and all we could do was circumnavigate it.

Go around in circles. I guess you got tired

of scaled-down infinities, living in a kingdom

the size of an architectural model, wearing

a crown built from brass instead of diamond.

I guess you got tired of the endless summer

that only produced longer heat waves, melting us

into lethargic puddles of cheap nostalgia. I guess

you got tired of the bargain thrills of local

carnivals, riding in a rocket ship tethered

to the ground by chains instead of shooting

into the cosmos like a stubborn cork flying

out of champagne. I guess you got tired

of moonlit strolls into black holes. I guess

you got tired of gifts wrapped up in tin foil

and dirty linens. You got tired of arguments,

of second chances, of third chances, of maybe

next times and let's do it tomorrows, of staged

readings that never led to glamorous opening nights

and curtain calls, of whispered nothings holding less

nutritional value than sugar. There was nothing

romantic to you about repeats. There was nothing

romantic about playing the same song fifty times

in a single evening, just so the dance we choreographed

together could be improved one step at a time, when all

you wanted was to try something new with your

hips and the way you dipped your hair in fresh

sunlight. I knew that the canned words I saved

in the back of my mouth weren't enough

to stop you from pulling out your childhood atlas 

and taking a crayon to every country you felt like

you could forge a new beginning in. You color

coded everything, drew arrows to the cities

that held your heart in fragments that I couldn't

glue back together. When you decided that it

was time to fly, I was never going to be

responsible for clipping your wings. I watched you

flee that gilded cage in medieval suburbia that you
lived in under the pretense that a throne was included.

I'm not saying I can't be a wanderer or voyager.

It's just that there has to be a home

for this weary traveler when they finally

decide to weigh anchor. You never needed

a safe haven like I did, so here we are,

both aware of how fragile and flimsy

a promise is when it's written on wet paper. 

I never won that game of chess, though

it's funny because there's an irony you can taste

on the very base of your tongue: Chessboards

are limited universes. There are edges and borders

cutting you off from escaping the grid, rules

forced on you, telling you where you can go

and how you can move and when - and worst

of all, the game expects you to wait your turn.

You couldn't handle that. Not even queens

can walk in whichever angles they want,

breaking the boundaries of their sandboxes. They

can build palaces and command royal subjects, but

ultimately, the fantasy is shattered when everything

is manufactured from dust and dirt. So you

smashed your tiara and altered history yourself, and

I collected the pieces like lost children. Last time

you said you loved me, I swore I'd give you freedom. 

Now I see it was never mine to bequeath to you.

All you had to do was run away from the castle.