HEY JUSTINE I WROTE YOU A POEM

So in grade four, when listening sucked,

we’d sneak Dragonlance books under our desks.

How there’s three wizard guilds, distinguished

by the pigment in their robes, their rigid faction

moralities, and their chromatic totem moons.

Good, neutral, and you-know-what. But all those

common-ass herders and teamsters just figure

Krynn’s got two moons. One ivory, one rust:

whatever people see. That other moon, though,

Nuitari? It knows what wizards really want.

How red and white archmages can’t even tell

it’s there, shaded out exactly like the night.

How all those dark robes biking out for midnight

spell component runs, they’ll stop to take it easy

against some headstone carved like a baernaloth,

spread out scrolls, maybe, if the turf’s wet,

and trip out on the secret black moon.

I mean today I did two pickle jars’ worth.

Started this thing ten AM your time, when

you said you did first pour. All things can be

handled, but freaking out’s protocol. We stare

down the philtre. How coffee’s actually red.