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.

Up here, it’s a haunted house

“‘… up here’ –she gestured to her head– ‘it’s a haunted house.’” – Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.

We flew across the country to bury your ashes by your eldest daughter's plot. There was a barbecue in your niece's backyard that week, where your extended family — our extended family, I guess — gathered to see each other and share their memories of you. It was a sunny day, mid-July; I was exhausted. I took a nap on a loveseat in the empty living room. Like you had done during family gatherings when you were alive.

Water is boiling in an electric kettle on top of a file cabinet behind my desk. I pour it into a mug covered with titles of commonly banned books. I dig a teabag out of the drawer of the cabinet I emptied of files and filled with tea, coffee grounds, and snacks. I dunk the teabag in the water, watch the brown cloud stretch, grow. Steam sways like a wind chime's mallet in an autumnal flurry. Every few minutes, you remind me to take a sip, so I don't have to microwave it like you needed to near the end.

When I was in elementary school, I walked to your house when the school day ended. It was a cold, dark winter. I watched cartoons while working on math homework — simple multiplication, I think. You made me hot cocoa by microwaving a mug of milk, squirting in chocolate syrup, and twirling whipped cream on top. Did you add a cherry? Did you keep a jar of maraschino cherries in your fridge? I don't remember.

One of my students asks me to see their choir concert. I put it in my calendar to make sure I can attend. I arrive early, park in the same spot I left two hours earlier. I sit in the room where students ate lunch six hours earlier. They have a solo during the final song. My heart is full, my eyes teary. This must be a fraction of what you felt during my concerts. You tell me to help put chairs away when the concert ends. I tell them how proud I am of them and their performance. They introduce me to their family. You tell me how proud you are of me as I drive home.

It was spring. My mother, your younger daughter, buried some of your ashes along the edge of her yard which overlooks a small creek (which exists when it rains for a day or two). You are split between two sides of a continent; flowers bloom around your name every year.

a test proctor

silence

thirty students and laptops
along the room's perimeter

a pile of backpacks
between the door and a bookcase

fingers on keyboards
like rain on a sidewalk

warm, stagnant air
of early afternoon

five heads on desks
between hoods and forearms

cold coffee in a thrift-store mug
by the keyboard on your desk

a pencil eraser on a desk
120 beats per minute

a whisper
a nod

silence

The World Is Ending

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from April, 2023.

I. smittle, v.

The world is ending.

The world is ending and
you want to go get groceries.

You want to 
"Keep Calm and Carry On" 
the apocalypse.

The world is ending and
you "just need some cold medicine."

The world is ending.

My world
is ending.

II. schlafrock, n.

Wrapped in your robe, you lie
on the couch under a fleece blanket,
a cough drop skating around your mouth.

Snow falls fast, mixed with audible rain
outside the sliding glass door,
blinds turned toward the opposite wall.

I turn the stove off as steam erupts
from the kettle, whose water I pour
into a mug shaped like a camper van.

The bag of chamomile bobs to the surface
looking for air; exhausted, it floats
in defeat, waits for the end.

III. naumachia, n.

That was the last time before
the news broke. Before
the apocalypse arrived

as a push notification
on your phone. “Worst Case
Scenario,” you say. “Go.”

I reply, “Worst Case Scenario:
You cough so much at night that
we’re up all night and I fall asleep at work.”

“Worst Case Scenario:
I wake up so covered in mucus,
you realize I’m too disgusting to be with.”

“Worst Case Scenario:
You die and I end up starving to death,
because I forgot how to cook anything.”

“That would be pretty bad,” you laugh,
cough into your blanket, place your phone
face down on the coffee table.

IV. supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, adj.

You like to watch Mary Poppins
when you’re overwhelmed.
An escape when no other
can be found.

V. grass line, n.

During the movie, you sink
below the hem of your blanket.

Your breathing is heavy, labored
through bubbling mucus.

You say, “A spoonful of sugar
wouldn’t do shit.”

These things help me know
you’re still here.

VI. paenula, n.

Priests visit our house
three days after
the apocalypse began,
sent by the hospital.

The doctors assumed
it would help. The priests
left Bibles and crosses
on the dining table. 

They live in denial of
the end of days
already being here —
delusional.

VII. shishya, n.

We met at a training
for new teachers
the district required,
even though we had both taught
for several years prior.

We sat at the same table
in an elementary school library.
The instructional coach lead us
in too many icebreakers; we complained
about our wasted time instead.

VIII. om mani padme hum, n. (and int.)

In the morning,
after work, or
after your daily walk
around the neighborhood,

you sit on the patio
in a camping chair
next to pots of tomatoes
who refuse to grow.

IX. singeli, n.

It’s hard to breathe
when the world is ending.

Smoke envelops the sky
in a gnarled yellow hue.

My heartbeats as intense as
when the bass drops in an edm song.

X. anago, n.

I insist on going to the store
for cold medicine.

I walk through the aisles
like a red-tailed hawk after its prey.

I stop by Trapper’s when I’m done
to surprise you with your favorite dinner.

XI. ristra, n.

I find you on the couch
surrounded by used tissues
under a garland of peppers

your mother sent for luck
after she heard
the world is ending.

XII. ogogoro, n.

You’ve been drinking more
since your diagnosis.

Soothes your throat,
helps you sleep,

helps you escape
your body.

XIII. volksliedjie, n.

I remember
our first concert.

You told me about this band
I’d never heard of

who played a genre
I’d never heard of.

You told me their songs
were full of magic.

XIV. wax comb, n.

We walk a bit further each day
to build up your endurance.

You want to climb Tiger Mountain
one more time.

XV. plámás, v.

You scoff when
I tell you you’re getting better.

You argue when
I say you’re not gross.

XVI. quotingly, adv.

You read articles about recent studies,
checkout medical journals from the library.

You tell me about the many branches
of if-thens in our future.

XVII. nemorivagant, adj..

We start our hike up Tiger Mountain
around dawn.

A slow pace with many breaks
in our ascent.

Once at the summit, you sit on
a rock,

watch the afternoon sun crawl over
Fall City.

XVIII. coursable, adj.

My paycheck goes to
various bills and groceries—

integers and decimals
losing meaning

each day.
All we have is time.

XIX. ventilary, adj.

I’m sorry, but sometimes,
when you fall asleep before me,

I listen to you snore, the rhythm,
where it becomes irregular.

XX. omen, v.

It’s difficult to not think about
the number of tissues in the trash,

the amount of wine you drink,
the increasing hours you sleep.

XXI. yum cha, n.

During your afternoon nap,
I clean up dishes from brunch.

Your tea empty, your plate still
covered in spring rolls.

XXII. novaturient, adj.

A spring breeze rolls
through our house.

You sleep the whole night through,
wake with a zeal not seen

in weeks—maybe months?
You make us coffee, eat breakfast,

begin tidying the living room,
washing and folding blankets.

Feels like the sun emerging
from behind a storm cloud.

XXIII. squaretail, n.

You’re mostly quiet as you walk around
the lake by our neighborhood.

But you still say hello to every squirrel,
every crow and goose.

XXIV. pad, n.

The world ends
the 24th of April.

I wake up
around 3 am. 

You are cold
and still.

I hyperventilate through
our address with a dispatcher.

XXV. ombré, n.

I watch the sunrise
through the sliding glass door
of the hospital lobby.

Stripes cut through the clouds,
sections that aren’t ready
to move on yet.

XXVI. manhwa, n.

When a doctor calls my name,
tells me about the apocalypse
in a calm tone,

my vision is stuck on
The God of High School
playing on a kid’s iPad.

XXVII. flag-off, n.

It starts— the forms,
paperwork, phone calls—
so many phone calls.

I have to keep saying you’re dead.
Present tense.
Forever.

XXVIII. queachy, adj.

Our house feels uneven—
a slow-motion
earthquake, or
maybe
a blackhole
ripped through the living room.

XXIX. spaza, n.

Our neighbors and coworkers
set up a meal train
on some website.

Someone’s knocks
echo through our cavernous house
at random intervals,

leave casseroles, gift cards,
plastic bags of plastic containers,
on the doormat.

XXX. bodega, n.

The world has ended.

The world has ended and
people stand in line at the store.

They want to 
carry on like
nothing’s happened.

The world has ended and
they need something to take the edge off.

The world has ended.

No one seems
to care.

A Logical Conclusion of Hypochondria

Floaters crawl across an overcast sky.
Maybe your retinas are about to detach.
One day, you won’t be able to see anyway.

A cramp in your calf wakes you in the middle of the night. 
Feels like a mountain lion’s teeth ripping meat from bone.
One day, you won’t be able to walk anyway.

Hollowness erupts in your wrist halfway through typing an email.
You bend and stretch to fill the void.
One day, you won’t be able to type anyway.

A feeling in your chest like an icepick in your heart.
Each breath hurts. Is it your heart? Your lungs?
One day, you won’t be able to breathe anyway.

You can’t remember the word that describes this feeling.
It’s behind a fog rolling over a harbor.
One day, you won’t be able to remember anyway.

every tree on the coast

every tree on the coast
leans inland,
stretches their branches
toward the hills away
from shore.
what do they know?

On a Beach in Astronomical Twilight

It's just so improbable, you know?
Those stars are thousands of lightyears away.

That would mean
these photons flew here, voyagers,
trillions of miles, from a home they'll never return to,
and nothing got in their way.

They didn't stop at another planet,
get eaten by another star,
collide with an asteroid,
or freeze in a comet's tail.

These photons sailed right here,
into our eyes,
uninterrupted
for millennia.

Light bent in the right way
for us to see
remnants of an ancestor whose name is
probably a series of numbers in a spreadsheet.

And, we get to see these photons,
but not the ones who arrive later
or earlier,
not the ones caught by an overcast sky.

We only see the ones
who flew from those stars to this specific spot,
as our planet corkscrews around a different star
whose eye is currently caught mid-blink.

It's infinitesimal, these odds; these stars, their light,
and us, lying on a beach in astronomical twilight.

i feel like a ghost town.

i feel like a ghost town.
empty buildings
with shuttered windows
around a patchy courtyard.
no wind, no rain,
nothing here
anymore.

the big game

sun crawls toward a snow-capped ridge.

someone’s built snowpeople
on top of the frozen pond.

the moon hides behind trees
doing their morning stretches.

a fire pit, half-buried, watches the sky change
from blue-black to peach to grey.

engines from the highway
mix with the yawn from the forest,
mix with the whisper from the stream underfoot.

Have I always been this way?

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2023.

I. wardour street, adj. and n.

Back in ninth grade,
after our English class read Romeo & Juliet,
Dom kept speaking
in fake medieval diction.

She’d spend lunch telling me about
the latest episode of Riverdale 
with the occasional ‘ye’ and ’t’was,’
a smattering of ‘-eth’ suffixes.

II. Ideogenous, adj.

Dom used to write stories all the time.
During class, her laptop
would be open for ‘note-taking,’
but she would be deep into
her latest Reylo fanfiction.

III. collabo, v.

The first time Dom spoke to me,
she asked me to help with a piece she wanted to play
for the solo and ensemble contest.

She was taking a mute out of her trumpet;
I was putting the marimba part of “So What” in my folder.
The hollow sound of her emptying her spit valve

filled the time it took me to understand.
I never thought I was that good or noticeable.
I accepted the opportunity.

IV. amigurumi, n.

I have a squid on my desk,
small, purple, a tiny grin,
that Dom knit me
before she moved away.

I think about messaging her
every time I see it,
but get too afraid
to type anything.

V. groceteria, n.

The morning of the solo and ensemble contest,
Dom said we needed to stop at the Haggen
by my apartment complex to get
AriZona Arnold Palmers for good luck.

She walked across the store
like her life depended on it.
The cashier complimented our suits.
We chugged them in the high school parking lot.

VI. misogamous, adj.

Dom texted me
during winter break our sophomore year
upset her mom got engaged to her boyfriend.

She didn’t understand
how her mom could happily participate
in such patriarchal traditions.

VII. y’alls, pron.

When the judge announced
our performance of “Take Five”
won the small ensemble category,
the audience erupted.

VIII. roscidating, adj.

I sit at my computer,
doomscrolling,
alone.

Dom’s squid stares at me.
I need to talk to someone,
but what would I even say?

IX. red queen, n.

She always wanted to get better
at whatever she was fixated on.
She encouraged me to do the same.

She even showed me her earlier fanfiction, which was
so terrible she swore to never share it.
But she trusted me.

X. cabinet able, adj.

I used to eat lunch in the library.
Well, I’d sit in the library during lunch.
But Dom invited me to sit with her and her friends
after we started practicing for the contest.

It was like starting a series
halfway through the third season,
piecing together names and plots
everyone else already knows.

XI. ajangle, adj. and adv.

I remember the sound distinctly:
the chime my phone made
when Dom texted me 
to tell me her stepdad got relocated;
they’d have to move during spring break.

I remember the sound distinctly:
the chime my phone made
when I learned my best friend
was leaving in the middle
of our senior year.

My phone has been on silent since.

XII. coachy, adj.

Junior year, when my grandpa got sick,
Dom drove me from school to the hospital.
She refused my offer for gas money,
said it’s what friends do.

XIII. blankety, adj.

I don’t have another way to describe it.
When I was around her, I felt safe.

She understood me
in a way most people don’t.

XIV. galdem, n.

For me, it was hard feeling part of the group.
I always felt outside, apart.

When Dom invited me to her lunch table,
she made sure I was part of the conversation.

It’s because of her I was able to make the friends
I had, the memories I have. She made it so easy.

XV. satoshi, n.

Is this what distance does?
Does the past live behind rose-tinted glass?
Does she remember me this way:
emphases on my positives, whatever they are?

Or, does she remember how much she did for me,
how little I could return?
Does her mind filter me through the windows
of an abandoned home?

XVI. cyberslacking, n.

I don’t even know what I’m afraid of.
Sometimes, when a professor’s lecture is slow, 
I search Dom’s name on Instagram
to see what she’s been up to.

I don’t follow her, too afraid
of her seeing the notification
with my name, remembering how
I disappeared, then blocking me.

XVII. mindstyle, n.

Have I always been this way?
Has it always been the case that
the walls around me were
constructed by me?

Am I to blame for my own isolation?
How couldn’t I see it before?
Why can’t I
change it?

XVIII. barnstorm, v.

In the spring of freshman year,
our jazz band did several performances
at nearby memory care places.

Dom was so excited to be a traveling bard,
she memorized several sonnets and monologues
by Shakespeare to recite between songs.

XIX. bumble broth, n.

The week after she moved,
she texted me, asking how I’d been,
apologizing for not reaching out earlier
overwhelmed with travel and unpacking.

Words flooded me. Where
would I even start?
I couldn’t even find the words
for what I was feeling.

XX. cruyff turn, n.

For a while, I tried diversion:
ask about her day,
ask about her mom,
ask about Euphoria.

Much easier to read and listen to her
than find words of my own.

XXI. booze can, n.

I remember the first time
I felt the fractures grow.

It was a month after she moved. My dads
were at a school counselor conference.

I raided the liquor cabinet in hopes
it would loosen my lips, find my words.

The words that came were hurt,
full of confrontation, resentment.

XXII. dumbsizing, n.

She didn’t text me for several days.
I didn’t blame her.
It was never the same afterward.

Time between messages grew 
like moss
after a rainstorm.

XXIII. kitbash, v.

The way she’d play trumpet,
write her stories—
she’d draw connections
between unlike things, create
something I’d never seen before.

XXIV. durex, n.

We were inseparable once.
Each afternoon at one of our homes,
homework and horror movies,
walks through the parks

at our neighborhoods’ edges.
We’d share AirPods and secrets
before school, at lunch, at games
our boyfriends made us attend.

XXV. ramfeezled, adj.

I’m standing at the end
of the bread aisle staring
at the everything bagels,
her favorite breakfast.

I miss her so much.
What’s the worst that can happen?
I already have nothing.
I already am nothing.

XXVI. skyrgalliard, n.

There’s a beehive in my chest.
Words fill the windshield
on my way home.
I activate the wipers
to sift through them.

XXVII. shockle, n.

We did a morning hike at Franklin Falls
the last day of winter break senior year.

We packed two thermoses of hot chocolate,
drank them at the base of the frozen waterfall.

We talked about our families, the future,
decisions we would have to make.

XXVIII. chup, int. and adj.

My natural state is silent.
It’s easy to listen to other people talk.

It’s much more difficult to say something,
to be open and vulnerable to someone else.

XXIX. mopery, n.

On her last day, I couldn’t
drive home from school.

I sat in the parking lot
on the hood of my car.

She said she had to go,
had to finish packing.

I watched her drive away,
then sat and cried

until security came
to shoo me away.

XXX. send-forth, n.

I helped organize a party
to tell Dom goodbye.

We marathoned Star Wars movies,
ate bagels, drank Arnold Palmers.

It was the last time we were in the same room,
the last time we laughed together.

XXXI. navel-gazer, n.

Stare at the ceiling for an hour,
dig my phone out of my bag,

take a deep breath, 
open Instagram, find her profile,

hit follow, open a message,
type the first words that come to me,

hit send, enable sound,
throw my phone across the living room.

It dings.

breakfast with a bald eagle

downed spruce trunk
under green water
a steady current
rain drops on
their cloud’s reflection

on the riverbank
a bald eagle
beak-deep in a
pink salmon carcass
under its talon

thick fog in
the tree line
at the foot
of the mountain
slow as dawn

a call from
a nearby fir
the rhythm of
a playing card
between bicycle spokes

frantic brown wings
into the air
forsaken salmon flesh
on the shore
for the seagulls