Whatever Home Is

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from December, 2021.

I. flatshare, v.

Someone always there
to take care of the dishes.

Someone always there
to sign for packages.

Someone always there
to watch for red Corollas.

II. amirite, int.

They walk up behind me
as I watch the traffic
two floors below— green Forester.

A hand on my shoulder, they sit
on one of the throw pillows
we scattered on the floor in front of
the sliding glass door
to the porch— blue Civic.

They flick their wrist
toward the street, say,
“Next summer blockbuster!”
Met with silence — yellow Mustang.

III. infodemic, n.

It takes time to sift through it all —
the humans on the sidewalk,
the song of warblers by the window feeder,
the caws of crows by the garbage cans,
the whistle of their tea kettle boiling,
the glare of the sun in the glass door —
in order to focus on the cars in the street.

IV. amscray, v.

Early evening, a familiar shape
of headlights come round the corner.
They slow by our building, connected
to a body the shade of dried blood.
I spin so quick, the pillow slides out
from under me across the fake-wood floor,
and I have to scramble to my feet,
dash through the apartment to the bedroom
closet, slam the door shut.
A suitcase’s coarse fabric rubs my temple.

V. bardo, n.

No light.
Three thumps.
A click.
A squeaky hinge.
Muffled voices.
Silence.
A suitcase’s zipper in my fingers.
Footsteps in the hallways.
A gulp.

VI. fastballer, n.

Everything happens
in the blink of an eye.
The closet door opens,
my arm is pulled,
the suitcase is packed,
and I am planted
in the backseat of the car
staring out the window
as the curb flows by me
like the water of a river.

VII. phantastikon, n.

A man runs along the curb,
jumps over hydrants,
swings under streetlights,
grinds along benches.
He speeds up, slows down
in tandem with the car.

VIII. Fast-medium, adj. and n.

I’m put in a chair in front
of a large desk covered
in loose papers, sloppy folders.
A person in a wrinkled suit
sits behind it, says their name,
quickly asks a bunch of questions, 
checking boxes on a piece of paper
hidden by a beat-up clipboard.

IX. amatorio, n.

On the person’s desk is a small tray,
no bigger than a side dish, which has
a couple stress balls in it. After several
questions I don’t answer, they offer
a ball from the tray, which I accept,
because it feels like the right thing to do.
The tray is thick, uneven, and in the vacuum
left by the ball I grabbed is some writing
painted on messily. “Mom” and a heart is all
I see before the tray is back on the desk.
I squeeze the ball and breathe.

X. fairyism, n.

I am not in my body
for the rest of the interview.
I float through the ceiling fan’s blades,
watch my body’s mouth
answer her questions,
don’t hear anything.

XI. taffety, n. and adj.

When I land back in my body,
my eyes lock on the curtain
over her right shoulder.
Teal waves against
an overcast sky.

XII. scribacious, adj.

She hands me
a composition book with a cheap pen
to express my thoughts, saying
it can help
me process my feelings.
She escorts me to a small room
with a desk and a twin bed,
says we’ll talk tomorrow.

XIII. botheration, int. and n.

I don’t get how writing something is going to help me think about anything. It doesn’t even make sense. I’d just “process” the literal words on the page; there’d be nothing deeper than that. How is writing a detailed play-by-play of me walking to the grocery store going to help anyone do literally anything? It’s just stupid. Fucking pointless.

XIV. slow drag, n.

It was last Tuesday. We were out of milk and bread, so I had to walk to the Safeway on the other side of the apartment complex.

Taylor wanted to have Mac and cheese for dinner, but without milk, they couldn’t make it. I suggested just using water, but they scoffed at me.

The bread was my idea. I thought it would be good to get a fancy sourdough instead of our usual 12 grain loaf. It’s December; people get to splurge during the holidays.

I didn’t realize how icy it was. I saw it snow that morning, yeah, but I figured over the course of the day, it must have thawed out.

I was wrong.

I only made it around the corner of our building before I slipped. I landed hard on my hip. That’s why there’s a bruise there. 

Nothing else happened.

XV. ballyhack, n.

Wake up. Breakfast. Write. Group. Write. Lunch. Write. Solo. Dinner. Write. Bed.

XVI. lachrymabund, adj.

It happens suddenly,
middle of the
the second night.
A weight presses
on my chest —
I can’t breathe.
Every memory alive
full-throated screaming into
a flat pillow,
wet with tears.

XVII. fairwater, n.

Around three, I give up
on sleep, stare at the
constellations in the ceiling tiles.
Maybe there is a future
where my brain doesn’t eat itself,
where my ribs aren’t a windy cavern.
I slide the notebook off the nightstand,
scribble in the dark.

XVIII. autokinesis, n.

There’s a streetlight visible
through the metal mesh
of my room’s window.
It swings in a wind
that doesn’t affect the tree branches
or the pole that holds it.

XIX. popskull, n.

The first time was the morning after Taylor shared some moonshine they made in their apartment’s detached garage.

It was their first attempt. They were so proud of themself. So I tried it. You have to support your sibling, right?

My mouth and throat felt like a python had contracted around them. I took each punch as well as I could. I hadn't had liquor before, but people at my school talk about it all the time, so I figured it would grow on me. A rite of passage or whatever.

When I woke up the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like Neil Peart was doing a drum solo on my brain.

The pain was unlike anything I’d felt before. Felt like it would never go away. I wanted to let it out. So, I dragged myself to the craft drawer and found the X-Acto knife. Took it to my thigh.

XX. medium coeli, n.

During every solo session,
the lady talks to me
about what I wrote
during the previous writing session
as if
I’m the protagonist of a tv show
she’s binging.
Like I fit into some archetype,
some box, and she already knows
everything about me.

XXI. sunstay, n.

There’s supposed to be
some epiphany
I have while locked in this room.
That’s what they tell me.
That’s what happens in movies.
Where the fuck is it then?

XXII. supervacaneous, adj.

I give up on correcting her
the fifth time she calls Taylor
my “brother.”
She must have selective hearing
or selective memory, at least —
whatever fits the narrative.
I only need to last
one more day.

XXIII. toyi-toyi, n.

“… and that’s why I believe it would not be in your best interest return to your brother’s apartment.”

“You can’t.” I stand up. “You can’t.”

“It simply isn’t a safe environment for you. Your writing indicates,” she flips open my notebook on her desk, “he served you alcohol, thus creating a situation in which you purposefully harmed yourself,” she flips to an earlier page, “and your bruises have dubious origins that you are not being honest about.”

“You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.”

XXIV. belsnickel, n.

Everything feels
slow motioned and fast forwarded:
my hands slam her desk,
two nurses grab my arms,
hallway doors like trees along the highway.

Last year, Christmas Eve,
Taylor spent hours
making dinner for the two of us.
Because that’s what you do
after your family exiles you.

XXV. jough, n.

Christmas night, two years ago.
After a day of small talk,
stories from decades past,
unsolicited advice from aunts and uncles,
I escaped to the patio
just outside the porch light’s range.
Taylor came by, placed
a warm mug in my cold hands.
We sat in silence under
cloudy sky, falling snow.

XXVI. gombey, n.

I put on a stoic face when they come
to pick me up with my suitcase.

I put on a grateful face when I arrive
at a foster home full of strangers.

I put on a welcoming face at dinner
while I tell stories about a made-up past.

XXVII. lime, n.

There are three other kids
around the dinner table.
They nod along with my lies,
introduce themselves, but
their names
don’t register in my brain.

XXVIII. ginny gall, n.

I hate it here. It doesn’t matter
how much food they give,
how much personal space is provided,
how much anime we watch.
It’s a strange house full of strangers.
I hate it here; it doesn't matter.

XXIX. hen-cackle, n.

Under the shroud
of pre-dawn twilight,
snow crunches
under my weight
with my suitcase.

XXX. sinigang, n.

I don’t recall
these streets,
these cars.
I try to remember
Taylor’s soup —
how it made me
feel warm, like home
even on the coldest nights —
and use that to guide me.

XXXI. willie-waught, n.

The place I sit, a bus stop bench,
is co’ered in ice and snow.
I guess I’ll sleep till morning comes.
I wish I had my phone. 
The cold consumes my fingertips
and gulps my soggy toes.
While snow upon my hat does pile,
my eyes begin to close.

I hear my name, a frosty crunch,
familiar to my ear.
I struggle up, but cannot see;
the streetlight's reach too short.
But once again, my name is said.
I rub my eyes and blink.
Then from the dark is Taylor’s scarf
unraveling from their neck.

They wrap their scarf
around me, hold my face
in their trembling hands.
Sitting beside me, they ask
what happened, dig out a flask
from their jacket.
After a swig, they offer it to me,
then take me back home.