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When I was a child
The line between doubt and belief
was permeable
a meandering current in a stream
between reality and imagination
How I loved to cross that portal,
to lift the veil of certainty
that disguises the world of possibility
We had a ritual:
Winter was best
as dark came early,
before we had to go home for dinner
Sit in a circle
with the board in the middle,
each of our hands resting ever so lightly
on the indicator
Wait
At first we thought it a trick
But we pinky swore it was not
The spirit was speaking
We were the conduit
Soon, the game became unnecessary;
We just held a pencil
and it spoke to us
in smoky, graphite
Over time
amorphous scribbles became
differentiated
Scenes of destruction, fire, slaughter
emerged from our own hands
without our intent
Our feast of fun
became fear, force-fed
I made the decision
to sacrifice the board
and, along with it, the drawings
Sealed in a trash bag to be carried away
with the week's junk mail
and coffee grinds
Belief and doubt battle to this day
Childhood fantasy or
something wicked narrowly avoided
Belief usually wins out.
submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Get Listed for October
and It's Ma Thing
