Truth or dare

I am seeing pilgrims constantly at practice. Butterflies racing through the air. A beetle, hopeless on the tatami. Briefly, a wasp. On my knees, wiping down the floor, I notice a segmented copper coin with two twitching antenna. Tonight, I am come to your rescue, agent of the swarm. Tonight, even I am foreign here, though I am not a third as holy as you.

When I am not at practice, I am thinking about practice. In my heart, a constant and painful double-take. Everything reminds me of moves, stances, positions. Feet forward, backward. Hands up, then down. Soul, on and off. Going for a run in the rain, I start to dream again. Blood in my roots, down my chest, I can feel shame grow petals in my shadow. For God’s sake, hold it together. You must have a life outside of practice. But could I?

At night, along you come, red messenger. You have taken a new form this time but of course I recognize you. You emerge from the foamy surf with rusted hands. Trailing rubies from the dagger between your fingers. Over the sand, I will follow you, half-frantic, first running and then falling to crawl on hands and knees. I will fight, mouth filled with gold dust, to pick up the necessary speed to match your stride though I know I cannot catch up. Only when you reach the top of the dune do you take pity. You turn to look down at me through the mirage and you declare, with a laugh: Truth or dare?

Moving through forms on the mat, I again fantasize about being stabbed, because then I would have proof of a body, proof of sacrifice. The symmetry on both sides of the photograph tells a terrifying story. The passion I am holding in my chest like a poison pill. The faith that lies in the fallow field, featureless only on the surface. The belt, tightening around me. Truth or dare? Either way, just tell me your name. I know your future already; I saw it as I closed the door, crossing my path. Hand on the hilt, fever in my face coiled like a snake, I met your eyes in the mirrored glass. Never before have I been so chained to a single blade of grass.

I cry for no reason. No, there’s a reason. I feel like the Little Mermaid. No voice, only tears that bead on my face and then evaporate on the sand. Truth or dare? If truth, machete open your mind and kneel for me so I can stand on tiptoes to peer inside. If dare, forgo the blow and tell me everything yourself.