Trespassing
-Tabor Flickinger

I
For my sixteenth birthday, my parents gave me a Syrian castle.
Not to possess but better: to explore.
I raced up the steps, built wide and shallow for the stride of horses,
Through banquet halls and dusty sky-lit passages.
I journeyed to the heights of thick-walled towers
To view the unconquered desert,
To the depths of dungeon stairs, slimy with moss,
Spiraling down into the tempting dark.
I was a tiny intruder in the labyrinth of stone,
Drawn to each turn not yet taken
As irresistible beckoning mystery.

II
At nineteen, I broke into a church, night after night.
I unchained the gate in the high brick wall,
Walked silently among the graves, undisturbed three hundred years.
My teacher's key, entrusted to my care, unlocked the basement door.
Up to the sanctuary, my shoes echoed on marble,
Street shoes soon replaced by low black heels.
Poised at the pipe organ console,
I awakened the bellows; their breath gave life.
With four ranks of keys for hands, another for feet,
I called forth the host of voices
From the hidden space above a false ceiling.

III
At twenty-five, I drilled a hole in a woman's skull.
My hands shook with the grinding motor and with fear,
The delicious terror of crossing the velvet rope
To forbidden territory.
I pried open the casing of her brain, astounded
By the map of pink and gray, moist ridges
Nourished by the most delicate of branched streams,
A region of thriving commerce, threatened
When one river burst its banks.
Later, the aneurysm repaired, I held her head
Tenderly, with steady hands,
To bandage her and quietly thank her
For this view of a new world.