Cena

I spoke with Cena today. Though that is not her real name.

her real name is the sunshine and the moon.

She spoke of the war, of the swelling house she and 40 other unwilling inhabitants shared. Body to body and wall to wall they were lined up, sized up, categorized and stripped.

Reduced to a number, typed on a card and filed away to be forgotten.

A hollowed out friend said through empty eyes, " all they want is everything. They will prod your hide and brand you like a sow, but keep your name, somehow. Give them anything but that. tell them you are Singat! yes, a girl from the jungle"

And that she did. Yet no sooner had she hid then did let her light slip, and one officer was hip to her game and accent.

"Get in my office and tell me exactly who you are!"

Red faced and red handed, young Cena was dragged to a cold steel room by the tune of her racing heart.

And she sat and she said.

With eyes like the moon of a brisk winter's night, with her hair as black as the pavement she would be buried under, with her open hands on the cold, chipped desk, she sat and she said.

Under armed escorts, above the fighting and beyond the smoking city.  She sat and she said.

As she said, she thought of every missed opportunity, every lost brother and the charred remains of every dead mother.

Every minute spent powerless watching silhouettes strike silhouettes.
every lead-headed friend,
     every fear and regret coursed through her unfed bones.

She cried out for release, giving it all back to these thieves.

With one final heave her tired soul screamed

MY NAME IS CENA!

though that is not her name.

her real name is the sunshine and the moon.