LINK GOOGLES A BREATH OF THE WILD WALKTHROUGH
He’s come to dread the mystic shimmer of soundtrack
that accompanies each shrine, the suffocation
of an ancient sub-basement taunting him with
unlit circuits, unscalable walls, unsupported code
for fighting his way free. There’s a savory taste
under his tongue when his claymore connects
with a hinox’s meaty thigh or a moblin’s slackjawed mug,
a beacon of adrenaline humming heavenward
when he brings a blight ganon to its bolted knees.
Is that wrong to want? Is it not enough to be
the sword that seals the darkness, cutting through malice
like molten caramel? Miserably flicking switches
and pushing pressure plates, he pictures life
moving forward above him, without him—
horses cantering through the kudzu’d ruins
of what time killed before he had the chance.
He’d cheat his way from these chilled vaults
if you let him. And you let him.
THE PRINCESS KEEPS THE CALAMITY AT BAY FOR 100 YEARS
It seems impossible, doesn’t it, that anyone
could endure anything for that long. And yet
you do it every month, the pain shaking
you awake at 1 – 2 – 3 AM, then plunging
you through a pane of stained glass
into a sanctum painted endtimes red.
You hear the clacking of its mandibles
as your eyes adjust to the darkness,
watch it cutscene its way out of hell,
an engorged amalgam of everything
barcrawling and backlit, everything backed up
in the bend of the bathroom sink.
Hugely, it moves. Cleaving to the ceiling
like a silverfish, dying and spawning back
stronger with each extermination.
It seems impossible, doesn’t it, how far
the spirit roams while the body barricades
itself behind heat and acetaminophen.
But look at you now, skewed sideways
in the mirror, asking yourself, If a woman
looks long enough at her reflection,
will the answer eventually be god?
At the beginning, you can’t believe
what you can’t.
the metal frame of a sheikah tower
without your grip slipping, pitching
you face-first into a nest of thorns.
Can’t take the stairs to the office
where you can’t—doctor’s orders—
lift anything heavier than five pounds.
Can’t even float down three easy miles
of Shenandoah without sinking
through your inner tube to rock bottom.
Your century in stasis took more
than your memories; it took
your strength. Occluded in blue,
stripped and anesthesia-dripped,
you slept off the things that made
and unmade you, and when
the sliding doors unsealed you
from your sterile entombment
the world invited you to run
barefoot circles through the forest,
shaky, weak, and breathless
to be alive.
Rita Feinstein is the author of two poetry collections, both from Brain Mill Press, and a young adult novel forthcoming from Page Street. Her work has appeared in Permafrost, Grist, and Willow Springs, among other publications, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best New Poets.