Barbarity: RITE OF PASSAGE

A messenger arrived at my doorstep
with a message for me.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
I held out my hand and he withdrew
a small arrowhead dripping with poison from his bag
and stabbed it into my palm.
700 things rushed through my head:
to crumple to my knees,
to choke him until either he or I breathed his last,
to scream at the heavens,
to run down the street shedding my clothes,
700 things, and he stared into my eyes curiously
and noticed all 700 floating by.

I looked down at my wound and then back at the messenger.
“Is this all there is?” I asked.
“No,” he replied,
“an old man sends this message to you,
an old man who shares your name
and claims he has grown old with your years.”
I looked down at my wound and then back at the messenger.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied,
“the old man received this message from a young boy,
a young boy who shares your name and claimed the old man
had hoarded all of the years
that were rightfully his.”

I looked down at my wound and then back to the messenger and smiled.
“I have grown immune to this poison,” I said.
The messenger tipped his hat and left.
I continued to stand on my doorstep smiling,
sucking at my hand.