RACHEL ALARCIO

intergalactic rearview mirror

In eons and eons gone,
humanity has melded with synthetic

technology so aware
as to purposefully fail

the Turing Test.
Supernovae fold in

on each other like a castle of cards
and the clusters of galaxies in macro

are like ink droplets in a pool of alcohol,
feathering into darkness in every direction

like our empire, persisting
past The Great Filter. We hoist

our planetary flags and plant
them on alien soil. Assumed

uninhabited. Oh, will we ever learn?
Assumptions in intergalactic

affairs may prove deadlier
than they appear in the rearview mirror.

After all, was it not our own carbon hand
that smothered Mother dearest?

the first ember in the pit

Let's rewind the Doomsday
Clock to the cooking
of primordial soup,

so far back that archeological
fingerprints have been reduced
to space dust,

back when blistering
heat engulfed the planet
and all life was buried

deep in the blue depths,
too primitive to talk
to beings above.

Imagine an alien race
predating humanity, visitors
in our planet's infancy.

Who could they have been?
Did they have Prometheus's fire?
Language? Science?

The arts? Did their astronauts
contemplate existence staring
into the black abyss aboard

their space ships? Did they
leave a time capsule for us,
only for the elements

to break down and corrupt
its cryptic contents
like water seeping

into a message in a bottle,
blurring the ink beyond
all comprehension?

Or, did they only exist as a figment
of imagination, us truly being
the first ember of life in the pit?

study on childhood bullying victims' masochistic tendencies towards enemies to lovers

Scout's honor, I've long since forgiven
             Alonso and Eduardo, those childhood devilish pricks
but why does my dreaming brain keep recycling the face
             of the boy from first grade who betrayed
our bus-ride bond built on building blocks and Pokemon
             cards for the company of a bully? Furthermore,
why am I so satiated by enemies to lovers
             in my media like Catra and Adora,
Harry and Sally, Andie Anderson and Ben Berry,
             Peter Warne and Ellie Andrews,
Rey and Kylo Ren? Do I really think
             the fictional trope constitutes a healthy
life decision? (No.) So why do my dreams
             about bus 5607 persist? Maybe I should leave
this as a headcanon. Inspiration for my fiction.
             Or maybe I should tell my therapist.
Or both. Yes. Both are good.

astronaut looking for home

Hey,

I remember you. From way    w    a    y    back. That young peacock
eager to escape the tether, screaming, "Hello world: I. AM. HERE."
Declaring the day yours for all eternity

Where is that audacity today?
Has society stifled the cords?

You inhabit this body, a mere vessel in space on a rock, floating                    astronaut
tightroping the frontier, witness to a realm in-between night
and luminescence, no light source to define
your shadows, no darkness to remind you: kid,
appreciate the beauty in the eye of the hurricane

Listen. Closer. I'm here
to tell you a secret
(or two)

There's silence in resilience, yes.
But there is only resilience in silence...
in certain circumstances.

Make yourself seen. Make yourself heard.
Here, we are all astronauts shipwrecked,
confessions in a bottle

                                                      looking for home

always attract // dysfunction

Ann asked me, are you a friend? Duh! No,
bestie. You are a bee sting.
Corrosive, potent ink in many a letter,
dripping pages of dramatized romance:

E. and Ann. Me and Ann, made-for-tv
fabrication from your imagination. You are the
greatest escape artist since David Blaine. The wren
has a firmer grip
in terms of coping kung-fu than you,
(just the facts) conversational jiu jitsu...
kendo, too.

Look, honey:
Molotov cocktails of love?
Not my style, luv.

Open sesame, she says. Down comes no confetti:
Practice elsewhere, this psychological digging.

Queue the solitary phobia.
Remain
straight on the main
trail. Take yourself to

unzip your holly-red lips. I require my flag
verdant. Meanwhile, find me higher
watching from space,
X-ing the sky from New Zealand to Kiev

Yearn I no more. For me, it's the end of the line:
zoo, alone, noon.

Rachel Alarcio (all pronouns) is a Filipino-American multi-disciplinary artist from Los Angeles, California whose poetry and prose are published or forthcoming in two award-winning WriteGirl anthologies, The Lumiere Review, winnow magazine, Rogue Agent, Wrongdoing Magazine, Exposition Review, at LAX's Terminal 7-8, and elsewhere. They are a 2019 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Silver Medalist in Short Story and once opened for internationally-touring slam poet Caroline Rothstein. They attended the GRAMMY Museum Summer Session 2019 and have mentorship experience through WriteGirl, Las Fotos Project, Fresh Films, and the New York Arts Program. Find Rachel at rachelalarcio.com, @rachelandthecreators on Instagram, and @rachelalarcio on Twitter.