handfuls of air

Taking my final exam

at a picnic table alone

in a field under a weeping willow,

I notice at the edge of my vision

a building I don't recognize.

Its walls are brightly painted wood.

Its roof is edged with curving eaves.

A shining white dome crowns the top.

Wide steps lead up to golden doors

that shimmer in the afternoon heat.

It takes an effort to look away.

Walking inside the massive school

for the last time to hand in my test,

I wonder if I passed. No one stops me

from drifting outside again,

past the willow, to the golden doors.

They're dragging me in.

And before I can think, I ascend

the ancient steps and grasp

the gnarled oak handle and pull.

Dense cool air rushes past me

as I cross the threshold

into a hallway that stretches before me.

I feel lighter in here. There is a current

that guides my movements, bending gravity

to its will. A tribal mask floats before me,

and I grab it, pulling it over my face as I glide

down the sacred hall, applause echoing from all sides.

Thick red carpet shifts and lifts my feet,

and the intricate frescoes covering the walls

pulse and dance, driving me forward.

Heavy black doors wait at the end

of the hall, and as they eclipse my vision,

I ascertain that once I pass through,

there will be no turning back.

Two golden mirrors flank the doors,

showing not my reflection but dim woods

where piles of leaves stir restless:

my alternate fate.

I drop my mask and extend one trembling

hand toward the handle black

as empty space. I grasp and pull

and step forward then stop

as I hear the doors behind me seal

shut, knowing this means no turning back,

no escape until death.

The hair on my neck stands at attention

as a powerful force fills the air around me.

Hovering over: some holy ghost watching,

ready to strike if I dare to look back.

What have I done? The brightness

of the room beyond the black doors

originates from everywhere and nowhere.

With an emptied mind, I change

into a waiting robe, shave my head

over a bronze basin, open red doors

and enter a final room

that bustles with other young adults

who've also passed. They seem excited,

chatting quietly to each other

as if being there is some achievement.

But I keep my eyes on the ground

as I walk past tables where the others

assemble machine parts: inconspicuous cogs

and wheels and cylinders that travel down

a conveyor belt that disappears into

a dark hole in the wall.

It takes effort not to react

when I recognize that low grinding sound

emanating from that hole,

but I cannot show fear.

This is what I've been prepared for.

This is the way of things.