May my future self betray me

if I live long enough to change.

Untangle one wrist from the clasp of the other

and flee, illuminating nothing.

May the names I assigned to things

no longer fit.

What I call land will bleed out beneath her feet,

and what I call law will soften in her hot, living hand

like a piece of ice,

a drop of water.

Enter history if I am a myth.

If I'm history, I'm not going to mention myth.

That's the issue: we use the same few words

over and over again, as if each one signified something different.

"Stay," a voice begs, and I freeze.

Is this what it means?

How will she react

When I ask her to run?

What good would a history do her in the first place -

what good would this tight, foolish narrative?

If I live long enough to no longer touch

terrain I don't yet confess fertile with my hands

may my future self term it so

and get to her feet.

This is what it means.