Don't. Make. A. Sound

We grope in the dark

On one step there is the laser grid.

Flammenwerfers the next.

"You sure this is the way, Xolotl? Might as well turn on your flashlight"

The clashing metal cylinders whizz over our hair

"Don't want anyone waking up. Don't worry, I've got the floor plan memorized inside out."

Sweat has made a mucus cocoon on our skin. 

"The Old man will be waiting."

"He won't."

"But he is."


Spotlights in the eyes


It strangles us against the cheap, plastic chair.

"I know what you need them for."

Flat eyes through the mask.

"Let's play a game."


What's up with this shell? 

"I don't think he's gonna let us go."

He looks at me with those puppy eyes.

What do I have? 

No drill. No tools.

I have my hands....and....

my brain.

Ants secrete formic acid that can eat through the strongest exoskeletons.

We'll just put a tasty roach in there....

Let's make some music.


"He's not gonna let us go."

I wish I listened to you, brother.

There's no time to dodge the traps-we scramble.

He's laughing behind us!

Stop laughing!

Clasping hands, those grasping hands

Corpse-Stiff hands

Brush my ankles

We're almost out.

But wait-

Is that a parrot!?




Fingers turn to claws

Claws in the dirt

I'm up.

There's one last window.






"The bones of the last Neanderthal."

"But they're...."

"I know. I'll do what I can."

I smile, look into the warm soup of the incubator.

"He won't be perfect."

"But he will live."





This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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