every time I think of power I think of play. I think of strings and needles, knots and nicks. power asks for flattery. its a little boy clutching at his mother calves, digging soft nails into her corroded skin, brooked by layers of stiff cloth. it is cold out there. it is a bubbling of anxiety, an inward thrashing, a full-blooded composure. caught in the cheeks of an adolescent, stretching into the veins of an eye.
I think of four feet, 20 toes, pivots through dust and pine straw. a spin to a song that stokes laughter, and then temper. guarded steps to hold what’s rightfully yours. until swiftly you believe it belongs to everyone. it is for the other toes. I think of ropes. I think of un-tying, re-tying, split fibres.
power is a Childs game, really. it is like sliding cards below an aluminium door. a giggle and a pout. although the door is free to open, it waits for you to believe you belong to everyone. sometime the game should end, right?
after you finish dancing, soles scraped and poked, you put your rosy slippers back on and walk across the sooty pavement, through the prism of the city. the imprint of a scorpion pressed into those same toes. no sting, it sits tight. dwindles in its ghostly bed.
