I forgot I made coffee, had to watch it reheat through the perforated grate of my microwave. I saw a mug of Lipton tea spinning in my grandmother’s microwave when she forgot about her tea, after she started starving herself, when she told me, one Sunday morning, the last time she knew my face, “It is Hell to be old and sick.”
Category: Poetry
Truefast; Or, Inherited from the Gods
It is imperative, Elliot, that you pay attention. Our fate may fall in your hands one day, and time may take me before then, so you must remember this on your own. There is a word my elders taught me (yes, there are people older than me) that has been passed down since gods walked among us that you must learn. Hausaflortum. It means ‘sanctuary’ in a language related to Celestial that branched off when mortals figured out how to talk to gods. Travelers from our village created safe houses in every corner of the world that open to that word in case any of us ever need it. There are stories of old adventurers who even used this spell to protect ancient temples, maybe even gods themselves.
Asleep in a Campfire
The sun is orange, the sky a textureless grey. Haze. It’s hazy. ‘Haze’ is a kinder word than ‘smoke.’ What does a deep breath feel like? When was the last time you had one? The sun turns red, the sky a uniform pink. Tree line looks rubbed with a cheap eraser. Ash floats soft as snow. Will it bury you? Will you ever see light again? All is greyscale. Lay awake. Toss when you finally fall asleep. You may not wake up. Will smoke consume you? Will embers swallow you whole?
A Calm Lake
Stillness permeated from the lake. Trees stood still, branches stoic in the wind. Actually, it felt like wind died as it approached the lake, or maybe all the molecules found their spaces to be. No evidence of animal life anywhere — no tracks nor droppings or food. Not even insect bites on leaves. You’re sure the ecosystem ought to be suffering, but it’s lush and green.
Ali Shuffle; Or, When We Met
At the edge of the forest, I saw a madrone bent by ancient winds and remembered the way you danced at the festival by the palace when we met. I wondered what you were doing — whether you were serving tourists in your family’s tavern — whether you missed me. When we made camp that night, the firelight shimmered on cedar trunks, and I saw your hair reflecting in the sunset again. When we threw a fir branch on as it got dark, its pines popped so quick— like your feet when the beat picked up— like my heart when I saw you.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Padkos; Or, You left so suddenly
I hope you’re alright. You left so suddenly — you needed to go somewhere to save something — it’s what adventurers do. I know that; I’ve worked in this tavern my whole life. I hope you’re not hurt. News came in from a scout that a chasm opened along the trail south, where you said you were going. They said they found a modest grave a couple yards off the pathway near it. Before you left, I got up early, split our family’s culture, kneaded it into some dough, let it rise. I sang songs to it from my family — stories of tavernkeeps from long past — and from my favorite local bard who can never settle on a name — songs of decaying drow corpses and sacrificing souls to Nerull — before baking it in my family’s hearth as old as the grove itself. I snuck it into your pack before you woke up, so that maybe when things got dire, you might find a second wind and be able to ride it back to me.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
During a Heatwave
You step out into the yard, feel the heat’s weight descend on you. The grass is warm, dry between your toes. You think about how the only way for an individual to escape the effects of climate change is to add to it — a never-ending cycle that you may not live to see humanity escape. You check the weather app every five minutes to see if all of this is even real. You try to read a book on the couch, feel the heat seep in through a gap in the caulking of the window, fight the temptation to sleep. You try to think about cold things, because it worked for Gus in that one episode of Recess you watched as a kid; it does not work for you here. You imagine what you would do if the power went out, whether you would secure what cold you’ve collected inside, run away, or just lie down and wait for the sun to consume you. Ninety-three degrees in your apartment at 10 pm. You scramble to turn on and adjust every fan inside. You cannot find any air.
at what cost
click enter on your search — an electric impulse through an algorithm spanning an incomprehensible index, maintained in server farms across the globe — scroll through results — the first ones the most profitable for the engine’s parent company, the second ones bought by other companies — on your phone — put together by child labor in Asia from materials mined by forced labor in Africa — to view a content — for which the creator makes fractions of a cent, if they are compensated at all — which will vanish into the ether — as soon as you close the tab or open a new one.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
A poem by a white man in his thirties with undiagnosed depression— undiagnosed because he’s afraid of seeing a therapist and discovering that problems are deeper, more destructive than he thinks they are— who works through his feelings and insecurities in his writing; who buries himself in work because it’s the only coping mechanism he knows for quieting the spiral inside his head; who puts the needs of other people ahead of himself, telling himself it’s the polite thing to do, when really he believes he is not worthy of the time, effort, and support everyone else is.
You’re Old Now
You realize it when the belt you’ve worn for a decade breaks — the buckle torn through the thin, separated layers. You sigh, lament the trip to Target you’ll have to make to buy a new one before asking yourself why you need one anyway. Because men wear belts? Because your eighth-grade history teacher humiliated one of your classmates who didn’t wear one? Because you always have? Have you just been stuck in a pattern— recessive, repetitive — this whole time? Are you just a shipping container carried by someone else’s freight train?
M. Espinosa 