Soft ripples in reflections
of the shore and the ridge behind it
create a fluctuating barcode
on the surface of the water.
You row by a tree trunk doing a headstand
in the middle of the lake.
Its body leans at a 60-degree angle.
As you approach, you find
several large nails hammered into it,
abandoned.
You stop rowing,
watch drops of water fall from your paddle,
the growing ripples trail behind you.
A subtle breeze over still water,
which changes color
in the clear reflections of
the green ridge,
the blue mountain,
the brown shore.
You travel through
a village of stumps in the lakebed,
decapitated a century ago.
Their raised roots spread like spider legs.
Footholds are carved in their trunks.
On your way back,
you see two motorboats descend the ramp.
You hear them start,
see them speed to the opposite side of the lake—
still audible once out of view.
The reflection of the mountain
becomes a pale static.
Category: Poetry
You Are Not a Person (For Taylor Swift)
You were once
(of course), but it’s not
that world anymore.
Do you remember
summer days
when you could enter a coffee shop
without people noticing?
When you could read a book in the park,
the sun on your full face?
When you could walk home
under the evening’s raspberry sky?
The internet flattens people.
We know it. We hate it
when it happens to us;
you are different—
separate.
People are allowed to be complicated,
deserve shape, depth, empathy.
People need you, however,
to fit a narrative with
plot points and themes
clear as a Hallmark movie.
You cannot deviate
from the ideas in their heads.
You are an object—
a doll for fantasies of wish fulfillment.
How long has it been
since you could act without acting?
Since you could do something without the next ten moves planned?
Since you could talk to someone without your mask on?
Your wealth
—deserved or not,
ethical or not—
makes you a symbol,
a proxy
for whatever debate
the algorithm decides to prioritize.
It’s not your name
anymore;
it’s a brand,
a buzzword,
a search engine optimization.
You are an object—
a tool for the exploitation of consumers.
When was
the last time
you could share a thought
without having to consider
the opinions of CEOS or heads of state?
The last time
you could answer a question
without having to consider
the fates of the hundreds of employees who depend on you?
The last time
you could post a picture of your lunch
without having to consider
the moral implications of your plating?
You chose
to make art,
to share it with people.
You didn’t choose
to not be a person.
We did that
to you.
One Day
One day, the life that flowed through you
will be gone,
leaving only
the husks of your bones
to dry in the sun.
One day, the sun, wind, and rain
will erode those bones,
leaving only
the impact you had
on the landscape.
wellness feed
chug this shake, copy this routine
build your core
boost your gains
for the perfect physique
get this angle, this lighting
pose your leg like this
tilt your head like that
for the perfect silhouette
read these books, avoid those sites
learn about the world
be an informed citizen
for the perfect intellect
use this cream, this blush
smooth your skin
highlight your cheekbones
for the perfect youthfulness
drink this tea, this coffee
shit your brains out
lose 10 pounds
for the perfect body
you were just asleep
you’re awake.
did you drink too much caffeine?
when was the last time you had caffeine?
you were just asleep—
just on the other side of the water’s surface.
why can’t you go back? why can’t you find it?
you were just comfortable. now
your knee aches,
it’s too hot,
your back screams.
the shadows taunt you.
your alarm clock taunts you.
back from vacation
full laundry hamper in the hallway
washer and dryer on the clock
two towels and a picnic blanket
over the shower rod
desert in the fridge
stale water in a brita filter
a dozen half-empty condiments
on the shelf in the door
tired books on the end table
curled corners
frayed bookmarks
bent pages
every window open
a fan on each sill
ceiling fan at top speed
counterclockwise
feet up on the coffee table
skin like madrone bark
a cold glass of water
against your chest
your ashes
your ashes
inside a plastic bag in a cardboard box
on a shelf toward the back of the garage
behind their back-up tent
a long wait
for the death of a man
with no memory of you
a small ceremony
a distribution
of his ashes and yours
among the rocks and roots around colchuck lake
your request
i was here
hello. this is your house; i’m aware.
i don’t know how to say this kindly, but
i was here
before you.
i was here
before that blonde house-flipper in the flannel made cheap renovations to the facade.
i was here
before the previous family fell into addiction and the house fell into squalor.
i was here
before the men in hard hats put together the 'good bones' the realtor told you about.
i was here
before ox hooves and wagon wheels left tracks in my mud.
i was here
before the first humans foraged for huckleberries and hunted deer in my foliage.
i was here
first.
i will continue to be here
after i’m done with you.
In the Foyer
There we were
in the foyer
fussing with backpacks, tying shoes,
unsure
what the world had planned
for those we love.
out of the office
out of the office
only three cars in the parking lot
first sunlight of spring
warm on your face
birdsong ahead of you
in the trees beyond the curb
birdsong behind you
under the bleachers by the soccer field
birdsong alongside you
within the sparse bushes of the planter
tears in your eyes
M. Espinosa 