(slight trigger warning for this poem: short descriptions of death and carnage) *** The green dragon almost didn’t want to go back home, she wanted to fly past the desert I’d never crossed and find a sea and eat the
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5- down with
how long do you think it took me to leave? Not just leave The City, but leave the icy sun, stone mesa and copper domes where people and rats lived? The kid who
Rails
Rails, Rails, Off the Rails, hear her wails–Rails, Rails, she must fail, fall to
Training barrage
Studying amongst immortal demons and dragons–keeping myself alive on life force and blood–must’ve messed up my sense of time, cuz Rails sped like a rumbling train before I had time to look back. She didn’t spend seventy-something years at a witch school, but she learned what I taught her about
4- kid
The kid had a name. Most kids in The City didn’t. The City discouraged naming people, said names distracted them from their jobs in the factories, in the farms, in the offices. Only the patrollers got names: if you chose to join (technically, everyone who joined chose
My first hero
The copper dome could’ve been a school or a mansion or a hill somebody polished. But people definitely lived inside, I could hear them talking, their machines buzzing, noises drifting to the mesa like heartbeats through a demon’s
Strings of Fate
My two elective Strings of Fate classes had the names “divining the weave of the future” and “karma as a lens for interpreting the past.” In my fifteenth year I studied karma and in my seventeenth I studied weaves; yes, I know the stereotypical approach would be to
Pocket of Rage
Sorry, sorry, my bad, I don’t have the words for why. Make a mistake break a cake freak out and shout end the tear duct drought stab Gacks and slay racks, I’m so angry I could just cry the whole time.
3- born
I emerged from the school in a thunderstorm, surrounded by strangers banging pots and tins and wearing crinkly aluminum clothing. Of course the lightning struck them.
Witch names/from that age
Upon my graduation from the demonic witch school in my hundred and thirty-second year, I chose the name Kook, Witch Kook, and didn’t care how silly it sounded. At least it wasn’t Isabel. Witch Isabel sounds like a question my second grade teacher would ask, “Which Isabel does this
Jordyn Saelor 