We, the rebirthed gods, drink their past,
we drink their anger, and we feel the ashes
scrape against our lips, the heat boiling
our skin, snaking its way in and its rough
texture, cooling against our icy tongues,
crystalizing the past deep, deep within us.
And for those of us rushing to gulp
down the delicious trauma, and violence,
and pain, and suffering, that no longer exists
but within our lava, what cools turns
to glass tinkling down our throats, nestling
in acids of stomachs, fracturing as the glass
melts, shattering, cracks lengthen like chipped
nails left to grow, neglected, unnourished.
It was clear why humans could not drink
lava like we, so unaccepting of their pasts,
so much fear for their futures, where we find
enjoyment experiencing both in the present.
Because to us, that is all that matters.
To us, our present pain brings peace
if we accept, acknowledge, allow it to run
down our throats, settle in our stomachs,
and break when time comes—dissolve
into nothing but lingering feelings when gone.
And then we wait until the next tea hour,
for there is never enough history we can revisit,
never enough future we can imagine,
and never enough presents we can enjoy,
hold onto, allow pass, and watch burn, bubble,
become the molten lava we pour into our tea,
with remnants, the ashes, that help us
predict the future, even if there is resistance
to our prophesies, refusal of the detriments
of destructive actions, denial in the leaves,
the ashes falling, falling, and continue falling,
and the brew in our hands that hold apologetic
screams that are too late, too late, far too late.
(Editors’ Note: “We Drink Lava” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 56A.)
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© 2024 Ai Jiang
