Protect the Farm

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2023.

I. palabra, n.

What’s the word Dad told me
for when the sky
looks like spilled paint?

Maybe the answer
is behind that column of smoke
billowing from the silo.

II. folder, v.

I launch myself,
above the wheat.
Stalks topple in my wake.

Serena is at the base of the silo,
a torrent of water erupting
from the jewel on top of her staff.

Right. A water spell. That’s what
the word dad said was for.
I wobble as I land, prepare the spell.

III. groundhog day, n.

“My God, Finch,”
Serena yells over her shoulder.
“Any time now would be nice.”

Awkward syllables
leave my throat, water
shoots from my palm.

The charred silo glistens
in the moonlight once
we've extinguished the final ember.

“Every day,” Serena sighs,
“you’re running behind,
forgetting spells.

“I love you, etc., but
you need to get your shit together.
It’s getting harder to rely on you.”

I fidget with my wand,
not meeting her eyes, because
I know she’s right.

IV. bub, n.

When I was young,
I dreamed
of protecting the farm.

I never had Serena’s patience for
growing crops,
reading books.

Could never sit still.
Had to move. Had to run.
I needed the wind in my hair.

I could perform spells,
but not study them.
I needed to see them done first.

Dad understood. He taught
by example. He helped me
become the best flyer around.

V. misocapnist, n.

I take out a cigarette
at the end of our watch
as the sun rises over the ridge.

I take a drag, lean against
the door of stable.
Horses stir, ready to run.

Serena shakes her head, 
steps away to sit on
the tailgate of an old pickup.

She coughs. “I wish you’d wait
until I left to do that.
You know it bothers me.

“I think we should eat something,
then go back to investigate the silo.
How does that sound?”

My eyes are heavy,
my fingers twitch.
I nod.

VI. half groat, n.

Breakfast is small:
coffee, black;
toast, black.

Serena tells me about
the latest book she read
as we walk back to the silo.

I play with a coin,
flipping it between my fingers,
to stay focused.

VII. bonhomous, adj.

“Oh,” Serena says,
“sorry, Finch.
This must be so boring for you.”

I pocket the coin.
“No, it’s okay. I like
hearing what you’re excited about.”

She lifts an eyebrow.
“You’re sure? It’s just
a poet’s memoir about her divorce.”

“I’d rather listen to your TED Talk
than try to read a book,
so yeah.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,”
she laughs, shoves my shoulder,
then returns to her book commentary.

VIII. bloco, n.

Serena is talking about
her girlfriend's drum practice
when we return to the silo.

Charred chunks sizzle
in the morning sun
with an intricate rhythm.

Serena rotates her wrist;
purple mist flows from her fingers
to the pieces of silo shell.

"This should help identify
the fire's epicenter
and whether a spell was used.”

IX. char kway teow, n.

Purple tendrils spread
from chunks on the ground,
reach toward the silo’s missing torso.

Chunks and swirls
indigo and navy 
highlight on the body.

“There’s magic there,” Serena says.
She looks at me, smiles. “Let me guess.
“You want to see me do it again?”

I look between her and the silo,
move my wrist.
“Please.”

X. kalian, n.

She said the words
for the spell slowly—
awkward, archaic syllables.

I say them back to her,
rotate my wrist the way she did,
and violet strings unravel

from the spaces between my fingers.
They reach toward the silo,
but fall short.

“Hell yeah, Finch!
That’s a good start!
Let’s get closer to the source up there.

“Since my spell gave us an epicenter,
yours, up close, should be able
to discern the type of spell.”

I nod, float up the side of the burnt silo.
“Discern? Really?”
I perform the spell again.

“Fuck you. Read a book.”
Serena’s laugh stops abruptly
as her spell’s effects turned grey.

A vision appeared—
a tube, water,
so much smoke.

XI. anti-huff, n.

“A hose? And water?”
I tilt my head.
“Like a fireman?”

“Jesus. It’s 2023.”
She facepalms.
“Firefighter.

“Also no.
It’s a device that controls the fire,
prevents it from spreading.”

“So, they targeted our silo
specifically. Not even the whole farm.
But, why?”

XII. feechie, adj.

Lightning crashes,
dark clouds roll in
as we approach the ground.

“Could be real,”
Serena points her chin at the clouds.
“Could be a cover.

“They attacked our grain,
our main food source.
They must want to get to Dad.”

XIII. sodom apple, n.

Fields look different on the way back—
the hue’s not right,
like an Instagram filter.

Dad’s voice is ablaze
once we arrive in the dining room;
his open palm full of ash.

XIV. waygate, n.

Dad paces the hallway
as mom reaches for an apple
from the basket on the table.

It turns to ash in her hand
as Serena and I tell them
about what we found at the silo.

Their worry is palpable;
it takes up all the oxygen
in the house.

Dad protests when I say 
I’m going to find
the person who did this.

Mom jolts to her feet,
her chair groans against the floor,
when Serena says she’s going too.

XV. washikong, n.

Mom lectures about
the dangers of traveling
as I tie my shoes.

I repeat our contingency plans to Dad
like a student cramming for an exam
as I pack my backpack.

Serena and I say goodbye,
fly across the farm
toward the city.

XVI. barber’s block, n.

At the edge of town
is a strip mall and
between a Great Clips

and a Wild Birds Unlimited,
there’s a cracked gutter,
and when you peel it back,

a doorway appears.
That’s where
the alchemist works.

XVII. buildering, n.

The alchemist’s shop
is at the roof of a building
hidden in the gutter alley.

For protection
(or just to be a dick),
there are no stairs,

no door from inside.
His magic affects gravity,
makes flying too difficult.

We have to climb the exterior—
fingertips on brick edges,
toes on windowsills.

XVIII. toyo, n.

The alchemist sits
behind his desk, a bowl
of fried rice in one hand,

a half-full bottle
of soy sauce
in the other.

He nods at us in the doorway,
wipes his mouth with his sleeve,
waves us forward.

XIX. geeksville, n.

We tell the alchemist about the silo.
He and Serena click instantly—
fucking nerds.

He has many clarifying questions;
Serena answers with many big words.
I run my fingertips over the labels

of potion bottles he has on display.
He snaps his fingers, flips through pages
of a floating, translucent spellbook.

XX. ohana, n.

The alchemist rubs his chin.
“Looks to be the work of a sorcerer
much too dangerous for you kids.”

I slam my hands on the counter.
“It’s our family. They have no food.
We have to fix it.

“Do you know who did it?
Or have something to stop the rot?
Or do we need to find someone else?”

XXI. cabinet particulier, n.

He pinches the bridge of his nose,
sighs. “Fine. It looks like
the handiwork of Rauldor.

“He’s a restaurateur
whose latest pop-up
seeks to redefine French cuisine.

“My guess is
your father refused his offer,
and this is retribution.

“I’ll arrange a reservation for you,
so you can get some intel.” A pause.
“Do you have… formal wear?”

XXII. adumbrant, adj.

Ties are so uncomfortable.
Whoever decided men
needed to be strangled

to show formality
has never had to work
with their hands.

Rauldor’s pop-up
is in the shadow of
the movie theatre’s spire.

The entrance moves down the street
throughout the evening,
disappears at dusk.

XXIII. zelotypia, n.

Rauldor has a vibe
which escapes words—
but it’s in his eyes.

There’s a constant sense
of calculation, comparison
in the twitch of his pupils.

He walks between tables,
eyes and rotates flower vases,
adjusts the knot of his tie.

XXIV. noctilucent, adj.

Serena casts spells
subtly under her menu
as we wait for bread—

bread, apparently,
from grain we grew
at home.

She says there’s so much
ambient magic in the air,
she won’t be noticed.

I twirl my fork,
watch the waitstaff walk
into and out of the kitchen.

Rauldor’s hair,
a storm cloud always visible
across the dim dining area.

XXV. broad acres, n.

This fucking guy.
As Rauldor makes his rounds,
he talks to each table about

his fresh ingredients,
his gourmet cooking,
his influences from his travels.

Insufferable.
Serena uses a spell to
tip over a platter as a diversion.

I turn to shadow,
roll along the baseboard
toward his office.

XXVI. milver, n.

I move around the kitchen—
smoke from the grill,
boiling water for pasta,

so many tubes
bringing water in,
sucking up smoke.

Serena said Rauldor
would probably have something—
a ring, gem, or scroll—

to undo the curse
once our father caved
to his demands.

Once through the gap between
the floor and the office door,
I see a banner above his computer which reads:

“‘Your focus
determines your reality.’
— Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Dad has the same quote,
the same banner,
in his office at home.

XXVII. paanwallah, n.

I reach toward the banner
slow as the summer sun,
lift the pushpin in the corner.

Focused, measured,
cannot make a sound.
There’s a picture behind the banner.

Rauldor, youthful,
a Culinary Institute hoodie,
and my dad in his UC Davis shirt.

Its corner bent,
taped down
hurriedly.

I peel the tape gently, carefully,
find a hole in the drywall with
a raindrop-shaped gem on the end of a chain.

It’s cold in the palm of my hand
as I scoop it up, but then
a ripple of heat emanates from the hole.

An alarm. Duh. I quickly
tape the picture down, replace the banner,
slip back into the shadow.

XXVIII. wayfere, n.

Rauldor’s French (I assume)
booms through the kitchen
as I slink to the bathroom.

I emerge in an empty stall,
wash my hands,
head back to our table.

I ask about the commotion,
pat my breast pocket,
say I’m too full for dessert.

Serena says a waiter tripped,
the check’s taken care of,
we’re good to go.

I feel like an alien
performing a human impression
as we walk out of the restaurant.

A man, outside, says
we’re dressed awfully fancy to see
the Super Mario movie.

We laugh hard,
whether to his joke or out of relief,
I don’t know.

Around the corner, we try to fly home.
While Serena is successful,
I remain planted to the ground.

The gem, she says, must have
some strange gravitational pull,
so we begin walking home instead.

Serena asked what really happened,
once at a safe distance, then lists
the shenanigans she pulled to buy me time.

The city’s not so bad—
streetlights, the moon
light our way home.

XIX. ombrology, n.

The gem throbs against my chest
as we approach the edge of our farm,
the silo’s skeleton in the light of dawn.

Something tells me—
a wordless radiation—
I have to crush the gem.

Serena stops when I walk toward the silo.
She yells when I take out the gem.
She takes off when my fist consumes it

and I pour
its dust
into the ashes.

The sky becomes white,
the air becomes cool,
and Serena tackles me.

She yells and cries,
bangs her fist on my chest.
Hopelessness consumes her eyes.

Then rain begins to fall.
Rain falls
and the fields turn green.

XXX. gordon bennett, int.

Serena laughs,
struggles to breathe,
falls back into the grass arms wide.

The rain’s cool on my face.
From the ground, I see beams
reposition themselves into a silo.

When we get up, we realize our clothes—
the alchemist’s formal wear—
are covered in mud.

The walk back to the house is slow.
The rain feels right, new.
Our house even looks brighter.

Mom and Dad are
double-fisting apples while
two steaks cook on the grill.

They stop when they see us, cheer,
lift and spin us around in celebration,
then eat their steaks off the grill with their hands.

They hadn’t eaten all day, Mom says. 
Afraid to destroy what they had left.
The rain told them something was fixed.

XXXI. blood and thunder, n.

Around the third knife fight,
Dad starts to doubt
my story.

Worse, Serena
doesn’t even back my up.
She tells them the truth,

even though our parents’s
unfounded fear of the city
is hilarious.

When explaining how I got the gem,
I hesitate mentioning the picture;
it feels too private, something I shouldn’t know.

But, Serena operates on
a whole-truth principle,
so I bring it up.

Dad’s quiet, makes a face
that looks like he has to chew
his thoughts into words.

“We were friends in college, yes,” he says,
‘but Rauldor’s changed a lot since then.
You’ve done enough, Finch.

“You’ve served your family well.
Thank you.
Let me take care of the rest."