Bored Satan Summoning

Wind symphony performance at arts camp.

I sit in a huge outdoor auditorium,
sitting in the same row as my camp friends.

Mandatory listening.
We cannot talk or play with a piece of string,
or bring a pen and doodle on ourselves.
Bored out of our minds, many peoples' eyes are glazed over.

Over the lake the sun is setting
and I'm thinking because it's what I'm allowed to do.
I'm thinking of endings and headaches,
drama and memories,
and the comfort of my bottom bunk bed and a book,
the chattering of my cabin mates surrounding me
like a blanket-less sleep in the summer,
the steel headboard above me strung with mementos;
rough drafts, notes and silver bracelets hanging from cords.

One leg crossing over the other,
sock pushed down to expose
a few scabbing mosquito bites,
and as I pick at them with bitten nails
I tear part of a scab off;
a pretend accident.

A pomegranate bead swells up and trickles down,
and I absently catch it with my finger
and swipe it across my skin
arcing up gracefully.
Blood continues to trickle, and I
paint a roaring rose of fire
the size of my palm.

My friend sitting next to me watches in awed horror at me,
moody writer, chestnut haired ivy doodler on flesh,
using my blood as a paint on my tanned canvas.

The song ends and my friend whispers sharply
as we and the rest of the people in the auditorium clap,
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Can't you see? I'm summoning Satan." I reply,
in an innocent and matter-of-fact tone,
eyebrows wiggling over my neutral expression.
Her face makes me have to fake a cough,
for the next song is starting and that counselor is giving me a dirty look.