To Those Who Have Lost Everything by Francisco X. Alarcón

Francisco X. Alarcón

To Those Who Have Lost Everything by Francisco X. Alarcón

T.

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How quickly everything turns around, more so when I’m feeling thankful. But I suppose that’s life, no? I am here, sitting in my office, in a puddle of despair and rain, which has seeped into the room when I wasn’t looking. The rain, leaking from the old pipe beside my writing desk, running down my blue walls. There’s another storm coming, and it’s not even going to hit the city, yet my office is flooded and everywhere is wet and submerged. I am sitting with my feet up, afraid to even move. I am paralyzed by this, and this is stupid, writing, because I don’t know what to do. I need time to process and I don’t know what the fuck to do. Wait, let me think.

I suppose I should gingerly stand up and see if the water has touched anything electrical. A glance behind my back shows that some of my books stacked on the floor have been saved, but I suppose some weren’t. I don’t know how to feel about this. The boxes containing my work which sit directly beside the pipe is damaged, I suppose. I suppose, I suppose, I suppose. I can’t get my brain to move and think fast enough. I haven’t had any sleep in days, I am running very low on energy and patience and I have tons of deadlines still. What am I sitting here for. I should begin cleaning up. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I have a massive headache. I can’t believe I’m still talking. Damn damn damn.

Sometimes I wish everything I’ve ever written is a lie.

To Those Who Have Lost Everything

Francisco X. Alarcón

crossed

in despair

many deserts

full of hope

carrying

their empty

fists of sorrow

everywhere

mouthing

a bitter night

of shovels

and nails

“you’re nothing

you’re shit

your home’s

nowhere”—

mountains

will speak

for you

rain

will flesh

your bones

green again

among ashes

after a long fire

started in

a fantasy island

some time ago

turning

Natives

into aliens

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