History Lesson

You walk through the fluorescence, turning
a corner to find a brown box on the floor
with the numbers 23 written in blue
lipstick right under the "Fragile: Can & Will
Explode" Warning.

You rub your finger tips over it then
press your palm flat across the warmth

it does not explode.

your feet are feeling heavy from
running when you should have walked
hands, sore from building things
out of pauses.
eyes, stinging and dry;
unblinking in the confused lack
of reply

a teacher walks by, a ghost.
She slips to the left
through the doorframe. you find her,
legs crossed on the desk, biting
into an apple as she begins reading
from the history book propped
on her lap.

"in 1879 a man accomplished
purity. He made me into a statue
of flexible granite; my joints were fixed
with ghostly hinges as the pages turn.
now, you'll see!"

And the changing face went
long and stared at me, this time
blinking blinking blinking,
waiting, for something,
i don't
know?

the lights strobed brightly
then shattered
raining down shards of cutting
luck

we rubbed the places
where it was smooth and I told her:
Get in the box but change the number
and this time,
Explode.

and so she turns into you
turns into me and I am God,
closed in upon that space
of warm indifference

And I was no thief, nor the common
victim, but God and I both
Shut our eyes as the entire building collapsed
in upon the already broken
glass

I fell asleep pondering all of this
thinking, what will they name me tomorrow?