you lie in a hospital bed
eyes behind a curtain i can’t touch
you look at me
ask who i am
and a light goes out
we’re at home
around midnight
a single lamp on in the bedroom
on your nightstand
comforter around your neck
eyes closed
you breathe deep
your exhale never ends
your chest caves in
like canyon walls
we’re driving to a concert downtown
you’re at the wheel
merging left to get off on seneca
a mustang goes 20 over
doesn’t see us
clips our left bumper
and your side swings into
the bottom of a semi
we’re eating potato salad
at a picnic table in a city park
by the house your parents moved out of 15 years ago
we’re arguing
but i don’t really know what about
you throw your spoon at my face
storm off
disappear in the parking lot
a different timeline
where we never met
but i see you giving a speech
on the evening news
your name flashes on the chyron
something draws my eyes to it
and i look up
in time
to see a bullet enter your chest
we’re on a hike
along the coast
wading through wet sand, uneven boulders
you say you need a break
sweat coats your forehead
you become pale
chug from your nalgene
the one covered in ferret stickers
you suddenly turn over and vomit
keep vomiting
until you fall over completely
i turn you over, find the sos button
hanging from your shoulder strap
i check your airway and your pulse
you’re at work
busy
i text you to let you know i made it home
but you don’t respond
you’re busy
the weather report on tv is interrupted
by the news
of a bombing downtown
where you work
you smile at me
blood seeps through the gaps
between your teeth
blood drips down your chin
you say it’s okay
Author: M. Espinosa
He/they. I teach English at a junior high school in western Washington. Outside of work, I worry about a myriad of things and spend time outside.
Another dead child
You scroll through Instagram
during your mid-shift break.
A capybara balances an orange on its head,
neck-deep in a hot spring.
A toddler’s speech impediment accidentally
makes them say curse words to their mother.
A nonprofit repurposes a dead meme
to ask for donations.
A dead child, one leg missing,
lays in a bloody hospital bed.
You close the app,
open TikTok instead.
A teacher records herself collecting
rent from her students in their classroom currency.
A polar bear breaks open a pumpkin
using CPR-like compressions.
A painting comes into being
one smooth stroke at a time.
Another dead child, three holes in their chest,
lays in a high school parking lot.
You close the app,
check Twitter.
A selfie of someone you know from college
cosplaying as Captain Olimar at a convention.
A screenshot of an obscure Wikipedia page
about maps which omit New Zealand.
A thread about the lack of disability representation
in Disney animated movies.
Another dead child, flies around thier open mouth,
lays in a patch of dirt.
You close the app,
desparately open YouTube Shorts.
A speedrunner discovers a glitch
which warps them to the Ganon fight in Ocarina of Time.
A man explains the origins
of the 9-to-5 workday.
A woman covers “Hedwig’s Theme”
on a hammered dulcimer.
Another dead child, eyes wide,
lays in the basement of Netflix’s next murder show subject.
You put your phone back in your locker,
head back out to the sales floor.
If you exist
If you exist in this reality —
the one we all share — then
what is the cleat hitch
keeping you here?
They say you’re not your body.
Your body, just a vessel for your soul
or consciousness or mind, whatever.
Descartes’s whole thing stemmed
from being able to imagine himself as something else,
and you can too — yourself as
a stellar’s jay knocking seeds all over a porch,
a black bear lumbering over a log post-torpor —
your consciousness still there.
If you lose your foot, you may be
less of a body, but not less of a person.
They say you’re not your thoughts.
The echoes you hear are from someone else
who has no body (probably), lives somewhere
you cannot see, don’t have a name for.
Or, they’re just electric impulses, chemical reactions
from organs you don’t even control —
your body can’t trust you with them.
Sometimes, when you drive to work,
fold laundry, your mind leaves you anyway.
You can’t leave yourself; you’re stuck with yourself
until the battery runs out.
If you exist at all, maybe
you’re just a shadow in the fluid
around a ball of electric meat
inside a collagen cage.
it’s a new year
it’s a new year.
a wet rain fly hangs
over your shower rod.
look over three stacks of unread books.
out your window, rain falls
through steam ascending from
the open mouth of your complex’s hot tub.
ripples jump around the puddle
on the caving pool cover
like the dots on listen to wikipedia
after another gazan hospital bombing.
water drips
from a rudolph nose on your neighbor’s altima,
from the lip of a pot of dead bell peppers,
along the rust marks on the community barbecue.
above the trees,
the sky is a blank sheet of paper
staring back at you.
rivers of ice
in movies slow motion brings the viewer’s attention to critical information in reality slow motion allows critical information to fade into the ether in movies your justice complex is admirable leads to the solution to a problem in reality your justice complex is a burden causes your ostracization in movies slow motion builds tension the viewer can’t look away in reality slow motion lacks urgency the viewer looks at their phone in movies your anxiety fuels a pursuit for knowledge brings community to the cause in reality your anxiety stops you at the threshold builds walls around you in movies a happy ending applause roars as you’re recognized for your efforts in reality there is none calved chunks of ice crowd the bow of your boat
morning routine
you lock the door at least you’re pretty sure you check and the door is indeed locked you pat your pockets to count your keys your phone your wallet but did you lock the door you go back and check and it’s locked you walk to the car and tap your pockets again you can’t remember locking the door you think about object permance as you reassure yourself the door is locked by turning the knob and pushing it three times you make it to the car and use your key to start it lay your phone and wallet in the empty space by the gearshift you tap all three as you pull out of your driveway then again as you turn out of the apartment complex to drive to work you’re pretty sure you locked the door
a calm shadow
theater marquee an early ben gibbard haircut black thick-rimmed glasses a scar with a delicate history under layers of concealer and foundation shirt with an obscure band’s logo an unbuttoned flannel red and white a heart with a brisk pace cuffs just below their elbows gnarled dandelion stem between their fingers denim jeans blue as summer sky manufactured rips on their knees authentic wear behind their ankles adidas the nice ones green and gold a bouncy toe within a calm shadow
Someone With My Face
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2023.
I. hornman, n.
I don’t really know what I’m doing anymore. I feel like a spit valve at the end of a show. Every day is the same four songs on repeat.
II. mug, adj.
Track 1: the first things I see are angry numbers telling me to wake up, roll out of bed, make myself look human.
III. bummill baty, n.
Track 2: I sit in a Starbucks drive-thru, then I sit in backroad traffic behind school buses, before I sit in a cubicle and enter data into a spreadsheet.
IV. mirligoes, n.
Track 3: 7359672056 tab 4214 tab 60.89 enter. Thin, black numbers in small, white boxes. Veins between the pixels come into view.
V. mingei, n.
Track 4: Rectangles, rounded edges. Talking heads in news rooms, vlogs in cluttered bedrooms. They all keep talking into their own headphones.
VI. mizzler, n.
When does the narrative begin? Where is the inciting incident? Why must every day bleed into the next?
VII. machinga, n.
When I was younger, people said there were many paths. They pitched careers like rolexes on streets around tourist traps. But “following my dreams” stranded me in data entry.
VIII. raccoon, v.
Is it possible to start over? Take a different turn down a side street on an evening walk, not go back?
IX. anticipant, adj. and n.
Pack a duffel bag just in case. The mountain looms over the end of the highway. The exit sign shines in the evening light.
X. rampike, adj.
A vision: the highway twists, decays like felled leaves in the late-autumnal sun. I take the exit back home.
XI. asante sana, int. and n.
You should be thankful, Kenneth. Many would kill for what you have. How dare you take that for granted, try to leave it all behind?
XII. whenua, n.
These trees, these hills are home to me. I know their stories; they know mine. Why would I leave the only family I know?
XIII. shockeroo, n.
Stuck in limbo: desire for change, comfort of not. I am a boulder, but am I at the bottom of a hill or the edge of a cliff? I awake each morning exasperated.
XIV. fetissan, adj.
Dig out my trumpet from the back of the closet. Lie on the bedroom floor, on my back, eyes closed. Let each note bounce off the ceiling to give me an answer.
XV. minnowed, adj.
Eyes open. Small black dots scatter across the ceiling like fish in a crowded pond. The ghosts of fallen tears connect my eyes to my ears.
XVI. deepfake, n.
At work, the next day, I leave my body, watch someone with my face type on a keyboard endlessly. Their face wrinkles, their hair greys, They keep typing.
XVII. ecofact, n.
Above their desk on the grey cubicle wall, a flyer from a concert ages ago at Jazz Alley, my name in large letters.
XVIII. articucho, n.
A pain in my chest like an ice pick through my ribs. There’s no air in this office. Everything is so loud. Even the lights are failing.
XIX. forslow, v.
Friday. I’ll leave Friday. I’ll pack the car, leave the office and never come back. Definitely.
XX. hippodrome, v.
Friday evening. Sparse highway. The exit sign wears a mask of wet leaves. But my gas tank is low; I can’t chance that.
XXI. raniform, adj.
Why is it I jump whenever I get close to doing something I want to do? Why am I so scared?
XXII. snorker, n.
When I was younger, I had a dream. When I was younger, I played carefree. When I was younger, I ran after what I wanted.
XXIII. nuchthemerinal, adj.
I sit down at the dining table and it's Sunday. The weekend blurred like trees on the highway. I haven’t moved. I can’t move.
XXIV. apple bee, n.
An ad on Instagram. An open mic at the indie bookshop downtown. A stinger in my chest.
XXV. duskus, n.
The sky becomes dark as the inside of the bookshop as the owner steps up to the mic.
XXVI. raconteur, n.
Someone with my face walks onto the stage when my name is called. They explain their history with the song “Over the Rainbow” while fiddling with their trumpet’s valves.
XXVII. racketiness, n.
Each note out of their horn, a memory of a past life: clubs, festivals, concert halls all across the country.
XXVIII. aptronym, n.
They don't keep to a set tempo. Notes ebb and flow over heads and bookshelves like grey waves over sea stars in tide pools.
XXIX. queemly, adv.
They smirk, signal the audience with a flip of their left hand. Their voices join in the chorus.
XXX. merry-go-round, n.
When the last note ends, sweat drips down my face. Applause, cheers, smiling faces, tears. It feels like home.
XXXI. delph, n.
Trumpet case on the kitchen counter. Bright office lights. A din of keystrokes. Listen to Donald Byrd on my drive home.
guest at home
shoes by the door walk on the balls of your feet like a cartoon burglar finish your morning coffee wash the mug in the sink before they wake up leave everything where you find it no trace of your existence fade into the background so no one misses you when you’re gone sit at the dinner table quiet as snowfall in twilight it’s your house but it doesn’t feel that way
not a soul on the lake
sunday afternoon late spring a cloudless sky not a soul on the lake dozens of houses with windows for walls uniform lawns not a soul on the lake seven foam swans in the water three coyote statues on private docks two wooden owls and a metal heron in a garden not a soul on the lake fifty kayaks asleep in yards thirty motorboats under canopies two seaplanes with eye masks on not a soul on the lake
M. Espinosa 