Three FFXIV Poems
Rayne Alarcio
My pronouns are He/ro/Man/iac
I am a champion of Light and Dark, two poles
pressing on the scales whose platforms leap
a seesaw, up and down and up and down.
The Warrior of Light, of stasis, of stillness in the forest,
walks the land with the intent to save/guard/defend
the realm from encroaching Calamity, ever marching
storm of chaos. The Warrior of Darkness, of kinetic energy,
of hypomania, of locomotion, walks the violet cherry blooms,
paper-thin perfumed potpourri scattered over hills,
wields weapon against the winged zombies with angelic
faces. In both worlds, I fight with a firestorm’s fury.
The battle becomes a dance, becomes a howl, becomes
a ballad the wandering minstrel sings. He’s sung my story
as if I were a princess-warrior, emphasizing long locks
and a dress with a slit for breathability, nothing more.
I walk up to him, clad in armor, and he doesn’t recognize
me. I say, I am the Warrior of Light. He says, No you ain’t.
The Warrior of Light is a woman. I smile and remove
my helm. He looks at my deep violet irises and a flicker
of recognition lights up in his as he whispers, You man/iac.
The Gold Saucer gives me desert depression flashbacks
My cousin calls The Gold
Saucer the in-game casino,
and I think back to the backseat, en route
to Vegas, sandwiched between
her and her brother, my shoulders aching.
I am eleven
and desert rust rocks are voidgates,
shadow portals to another world that fade
and melt into the starry horizon.
I wake to the Mars dune desert dawn
dolled up in rhinestone lights,
encircling the Welcome
to Las Vegas sign.
My uncle tells us
Every light we see is a person.
I ask, Are the people happy?
He says, It’s hard to tell.
My mother has omitted depression
from my vocabulary.
Diagnoses don’t exist for immigrants
born from World War II.
The only depression they know
is the Great one.
So, when my cousins and I arrange
ourselves according to height and seniority,
I’m frozen in the middle and sobbing,
missing my own mother and her quirks
singing Sunday gospel
mixing metaphors, a cavity
in my chest like a ledger of regret,
of spike-laden phrases:
Go back to the Philippines,
see if I care.
I wish
you weren’t my mom.
I stare out the window
at the disintegrating desert,
not knowing
why I don’t laugh
at my cousin’s jokes,
why I can’t smile
for the camera,
why I carry a phantom
backpack everywhere, pressing
on my shoulders like permanent
weights the exact
size of my cousins’ heads.
My auntie tells me:
Smile like you’re happy.
I crank the tears
and the decibels,
and Auntie shoots me
needles with her hot coffee eyes:
Smile like you’re grateful.
I will my lips
to lift. I think I’m smiling,
but years down the line,
my cousin will ask, Why
didn’t you ever smile
on that trip to Vegas?
Did you not value
our company?
Instead, life.
I’d rather live on Hydaelyn, with the threat
of empire, interdimensional fusion,
and beastmen looming
because when I fail to take my pink
and white pills, cave to the taste
of bittermelon black coffee in the evening,
I’ll spend hours pacing, eyes rubbed
bloodshot, heartbeat racing,
and yell at our landlord for raising rent.
I’ll ignore the commitments penned
in my calendar. Wander
my college town sniffing empty
beer cans discarded along the gutter.
I’ll get scooped up by an ambulance
emblazoned with Life in Granny Smith green.
Choose life, the driver, the Grim Reaper’s
more lenient sibling, will say. My rehabilitation
is confinement, the window blinds cast bent
shadows, prison bars against the tile.
I am billed a thousand bucks for choosing life.