by Jerelyn Ixcaco Batres, 16
the sadist’s leisure is my own oven.
for i know—
a heap of primitive wires
once ticked methodically in my face.
in its purest cynicism,
it bowed along
the forty-eight laws of power.
emergence travels
impulsively
along a wave of infrared coils.
programmed efficiently,
and active on impulse
whenever it pleases.
inside its alloyed constitution,
it softly commands:
Law 4—say less than necessary.
i absorbed this early.
standing in Mami’s kitchen,
words behind my teeth.
oven ticking toward heat—
a magnetic flip of the dial.
this pragmatic machine
confines itself within its steel.
within circuits that never confess
what burns beneath them.
it will not cease
until the human hand intervenes.
the orbit—
clawed either left or right—
calls only when
its minute has arrived.
so a sadist’s leisure is not their oven,
but it is mine;
whole and sound.
silence—
like circuitry
separates chained power
from the pleas outside its structure.
and so, i understand this much:
a preheated oven
must wait
for its own time—
just as i.
Fairview, New Jersey
This piece won FIRST PLACE in our 2026 Voice & Verse Writing Contest, poetry ages 15-18 category.
Judge’s Note: “The Sadist’s Oven is My Own” has immense power in its lyricism. Using the time it takes to heat an oven as a metaphor is unique imagery that cannot be found in any other poem. The meaning behind the poem is an emotional tether between the audience and the author, and it grounds the lyrical writing without making it sound artificially complex.
Bridge Ink 