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.
Category: Poetry
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
i keep seeing you die before i wake up
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
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.
M. Espinosa 