Architect; Blacksmith; Dictator; Wonderer
by Belinda Roddie
My sense of destiny lies in a tower
already toppled by clumsy hands
and a broken hammer, the ball peen
its own little rusted world with lots of
little people forged from iron oxide.
It remains to be seen whether or not
the map I hastily drew in crayon
will lead me to treasure or down
a bottomless pit; I am not prepared
for adventures or crusades. But I do
know how to hold the moon between
my fingers if I squint and pinch at
just the right angle, and suddenly,
all the stars are temporarily at my
command - they don't listen to me,
but I am filled to the brim with relief
from the illusion of power. Let the rich
man with stubby fingers grope for the cosmos;
he can only grab handfuls of air, and they,
too, cannot rival his own empty bluster.
I am prepared to temper my future,
not to sacrifice it into the hearth for warmth.