Tag: Fiction

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 staring to death,
because I forget 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 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 in
around 3 am. 

You are cold
and still.

I hyperventilate through
our address with a dispatcher.

XXV. ombré, n.

I watch the sunrise
through 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.

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.

I wasn’t good at being good

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from December, 2022.

I. carbonado, n.

Um, hello?
I hope this gets to you
at all. I know
I haven’t sent anything
in a while. I want
to explain. And yes,
I’ll get to the mark on my face.

II. finger trap, n.

I need to start at the beginning.
You must have known
I needed to leave.

Whenever I had tried running,
something tethered me —
feet in quicksand.

I didn’t know
I’d actually break away.
I didn’t know
I wouldn’t be able to get back.
I’m sorry.

III. amor, n.

I guess
it was just that—
Dad always
loved you more.

You had basketball trophies,
positive comments on your report cards.
He always said
he never had to worry about you.

I had shit; I had to earn his love.
Sometimes, I thought I had it,
but it would fade away
like the doppler effect of a siren.

That’s why
I did all this:
I had to aim so high,
he’d be forced to see me.

IV. dunning-kruger, n.

I thought I had it—
I thought I had it—
I thought I had it
under control.
I swear.

V. eustress, n.

I knew what I signed up for—
I was going to be
in the first group of people
to terraform Mars.

I had the degrees, the years
of research. My name
was announced on cable news.

I was a leader in our shuttle.
People listened to me,
asked me for guidance.
I couldn’t get enough.

VI. palustrine, adj.

It was like when we were kids,
back at the lake, catching newts
in a plastic bucket.

I always needed to catch more
than you, staying out
after the fireflies showed up.

VII. perfectibilist, n.

It was arrogant to think
we could do better than this.

It was arrogant to think
we could start over.

It was arrogant to think
there was nothing here before us.

VIII. soz, adj.

I’m sorry
all this is coming to you
in pieces.

I had to reconfigure our transmitter
with spare parts of
our landing rig.

IX. carnyx, n.

I took the controls
in our final descent,
convinced I should do it,
only I could do it.

I missed a switch,
a small mistake, enough
to damage the hull.

An alarm echoed
through the ship until
someone else 
repaired the necessary parts.

X. bambi, int. and adv.

The repairs set us back 
several hours.
When it was safe and
I was finally allowed
out of the ship,
I stood on red earth,
saw maroon mountains
meet black sky,
an overwhelming array of stars
around a blue dot
where I knew
you all were.

XI. rantipole, n.

They stopped talking to me,
stopped asking me questions.
I could see
hastily-constructed walls
flash across their faces
when they saw me in the hall.

I offered to help;
they said they had it
under control.

XII. boykie, n.

This keeps happening.
I always get in my own way.

I go too far into the water,
lose my balance in the silt.

Why were my successes
never enough?

I couldn't just pass my tests,
I had to be better than all my classmates.

I couldn't just go to Mars,
I had to lead the people who went to Mars.

XIII. yampy, adj.

Dad was right.
You are the better son.
You wouldn't have
put the lives of your crewmates in jeopardy
to serve your ego.

He never made you attend
your parent-teacher conferences.
I had to sit there
while he voiced every disappoint,
while each teacher reached for any solution.

XIV. bretheling, n.

I joined the survey team
to earn the crew's respect back.
It involved walking alone,
away from their bitter eyes.

In addition to creating a map
of the surrounding area, we were looking
for somewhere to build our base.
That's when I found the cave.

XV. ballyhoo, n.

I updated the map,
sent an alert to the leadership team.
They called me to the conference room,
where they sat around a long table,
cluttered with annotated reports and blueprints.

I stood before them, detailed the cave's location;
its approximate volume; how much time, effort,
material it would take to build a sustainable base.
I-

I emphasized
its safety.

XVI. devil’s coach-horse, n.

There were so many things we-
I didn't know:
the actual depth of the cave,
the small holes within its walls,
the boring insects who created them.

XVII. sambaza, v.

Our ship was modular,
created to be dismantled,
room by room,
once a long-term location was found.

I assisted groups of people pack, travel,
and reconfigure their rooms in the cave.
They thanked me for my help, my discovery,
made eye contact with me again.

XVIII. dreidel, n.

We had a feast
once everyone was housed in the cave,
most of the landing rig left as 
a monument in the red desert
for where our settlement began.

People laughed, ate, played games.
They were so happy.
It would be
the last time that feeling was shared.

XIX. carboy, n.

The next morning,
Hisashi, our agriculturist,
lead his team to establish
micro- and macrocrops
within and outside the cave.

He asked for my help
surveying the land, showed me
all the tubes and bottles for
his complex compost system
and his set up for brewing beer.

XX. hagwon, n.

Many people invited me to help them,
learn their roles.
I was accepted again, fully.
I was seen as a leader again.
I was learning so much.
Things were going so well.

XXI. rinky-dink, n.

So, you should
be able to see the wall behind me.
If it's not in focus, just know that
the shelves have fallen over,
the posters and pictures ripped.

You can actually see 
on this shelf panel, the holes
from the insects that live here.

It fell apart slowly. An air leak
in one of the rooms deepest in.
Patch work covered it, we moved on.
Then more leaks, more patchwork,
until Gloriana died in her sleep.

XXII. mondialization, n.

Gloriana was the lead
of the communication team.
They were constructing the transmitter
to report our progress back to Earth.

Our first report, as you well know, was
her death, no explanation or cause.

XXIII. lip-sync, v.

There was debate
about whether to share
that information right away.

There was debate
about whether to carry on
like nothing happened.

For days, we
cosplayed professionalism:
did the tasks on the docket,
said words with no real meaning.

XXIV. zilch, v.

They left no one.
There's no one
left.

I
examined Gloriana's body,
her room, to look for clues.

Day by day, there was less of her,
not natural decay, chunks bitten off
her limbs.

XXV. christmas, v.

On Earth, I think it was Christmas
when I made that realization.

I wrote a report, took some pictures,
presented my findings to the leadership team.

Two of them were absent. We assumed
they were on an assignment or

were recording messages to send
to their families for the holidays.

We were wrong.

XXVI. hanukkiah, n.

The next day, the lights went out.
Emergency flashlights under our cots
lead us through the hallways.

As we approached the power sector,
there was a whirring sound,
like an engine low on oil.

When the door opened, our flashlights
were whipped out of our hands
by a gust of wind escaping

through a large hole in the wall.
Shards of Tenzin's sweater caught on its rim,
their severed hand on the emergency shut-off lever.

XXVII. chindogu, n.

It all went fast then;
panic has a way of
exacerbating things.

We huddled together,
surrounded by machines
that were utterly useless then.

Gathered in one of the central modules,
we concentrated our food, water, spacesuits,
smuggled weapons and ad hoc ones.

XXVIII. bak kut teh, n.

Hisashi set out on his own,
knife in hand,
to find a specimen
to examine, develop a strategy
for attack.

He returned dangling a beetle
the size of a football
by its antennae.
It oozed a viscous blood,
shade of mulberry.

After some poking, prodding,
he suggested
someone should take a bite
to see if its edible
in case our food supply runs low.

I volunteered.
It all felt like my fault.
It was the least I could do.
As my teeth sank into its flesh,
the floor rumbled, erupted.

XXIX. mugwamp, n. and adj.

A swarm of them
fell like hailstones,
bounced like rubber bullets,
sank teeth and pincers
into whatever they found.

We scattered, ran for the exit,
but there stood the largest of them,
the size of a loveseat,
shrapnel lodged in its exoskeleton,
human blood in its teeth.

Hisashi and I charged with sharpened table legs,
hoping to distract it away from the doorway
while others fled to safety.
They all fell to the swarm, Hisashi fell
when a pincer stabbed his stomach.

Sharp pincers, legs scraped my face as I escaped
alone, the captain of a solo-mission.
I ran to the communications room, this room right here,
through a drafty hallway,
this room, the last lung to hold air.

XXX. dear john, n.

You’re going to learn about this
through an official communication
someday soon.
I typed it up and sent it to NASA
soon as I caught my breath.

But, I needed you to hear it from me.
I needed you to know I tried.
I needed you to see my face one last time,
know we fought back.
I needed you to know no one else should come here.

XXXI. mukbang, n.

I can hear them now
in the walls.

They’re going to get in
any minute now.

I’m not going to make it
back home.

So, I just want you to know
I lo-

Starting Over

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from October, 2022.

I. light head, n. and adj.

Today is a new day.
I’m going to turn it all around.

Roll out of bed, complete a yoga routine
with my phone propped
against the lamp on my nightstand.

A quick shower, a quick breakfast
that I eat on my way to the bus stop.

Nothing is going to stop me.

II. per fas et nefas, adv.

Headphones in as I approach the stop.
No one is going to ruin my day.

No one is going to bring me down.
Lizzo will keep me afloat.

III. downpressor, n.

Bus pulls up,
everyone files on,
backpacks knock against each other,
people, doorframes, seats.

Bus driver’s voice mumbles through
his expectations. It’s early enough
that people quiet down for him,
but I leave my headphones in,

wait for his voice to stop,
the bus din to return,
the yellow dashes in the road
to scroll by underfoot.

IV. alieniloquy, n.

The thing about
the lines on the road
is that they’re hypnotizing
as they fly by.

An intermittent, off-yellow flash
carries your mind to
some elsewhere
without dimensions in time or space.

And when they end
at the parking lot’s edge,
you suddenly remember
you have to go to first period.

V. bobsled, v.

Hallways are full of bodies—
a current
pulls me right to Ms. Acevedo’s
classroom.
I don’t remember moving
my feet.

VI. rhubarb, n. and adj.

Throat’s tight.
Swallow the past, Tori;
this is a new chapter.
I put a smile on my face
convincing enough
to fool everyone
at my cooking station.

VII. lightning bird, n.

I’m holding steady until
he enters the room.
His hair curling
under the edge of his hat.
A jolt in my chest—
why
do I want to cry and smile
at the same time?

VIII. dump cake, n.

I look down at our counter,
can’t look up,
need to forget
he’s here.

Ms. Acevedo gives instructions;
I don’t hear them.
Shay does, assumes the role
of our group’s leader.

She tells me to measure and pour
baking powder, salt, flour
in a bowl and stir. I see his face
in the powdery mountain range.

IX. dunnish, adj.

Eli asks if I’m done mixing.
I nod and xe dumps
my bowl into xyrs, mixes.

I look up, the room’s colors
seem to be on a dimmer switch—
it looks like the sky
an hour before thunder.

X. folx, n.

Ms. Acevedo address the class
about over safety protocols.
Shay and Eli discuss
how to decorate our cake.

I sneak a headphone
through my sleeve to my palm,
rest it against my ear.
Hayley Williams yells about misery.

XI. ice blink, n.

The bell releases us
to the sea, a long voyage
to our next classes.

Stare ahead at nothing;
looks better than watching
bow waves collide.

Mr. Persson’s display for
the Revolutionary War
overwhelms his end of the hallway.

XII. birdscape, n.

Respite 
among war stories,
since
he’s in math class.
I
can stretch my wings,
restart
the new me.

XIII. bodgie, v.

New Tori
writes her notes in cursive.

New Tori
nods her head while someone talks.

New Tori
asks questions during lectures.

New Tori
has her shit together.

XIV. chugalug, v.

I drink from my water bottle
throughout third period,
which helps me focus
on geometric proofs—
tonight’s homework.

I get in the zone, my homework
finished, ten minutes to spare,
an empty water bottle.
I ask Mx. Archer to go to the bathroom.
They tell me to go fast.

XV. mediocritize, v.

You are never going to change.
There is no “New Tori.”

You are the same piece of shit
you were yesterday.

You are alone for a reason.
It was obvious he’d leave.

You are deluding yourself into thinking
anyone would like you.

I scramble for my headphones,
play the loudest Sleater-Kinney song I find.

XVI. spreathed, adj.

I feel cracks spread across my arms
as I enter the bathroom.
They become deep, wide;
demons rise from the dark crevasses.

I feel the boiling spittle drip
from their open maws,
their claws pierce my skin
as they push off to take flight.

It burns and I scratch, hoping
my nails bury them alive,
but they keep sprouting
like weeds in an unkempt garden.

XVII. ignorantism, n.

Shay enters the bathroom as I leave,
gives a small wave,
looks at my arms—
radiant pink, thin scratch marks
all over my forearms.

She tilts her head, her brows concerned,
starts to ask a question
she doesn’t have words for.
I tell her
I’m okay.

XVIII. monkey bear, n.

I don’t know why I can’t calm.
Why is it so hard
to stand still, to quiet
the thoughts that clash in my head
like marbles against a mirror?

I watch the branches on the tree
outside Mx. Archer’s window
sway in the wind as the bell rings.
Everyone gets up and leaves robotically,
but I just sit there, unable to look away.

XIX. dark thirty, n.

I see it clearly still—
the madrone branches
dripping into the sound 
as we sat in the bed of his truck,
watched the sky above Vashon turn pink.

My hand in his, a blanket between
us and a cloudless sky.
He poured coffee from a thermos,
told me he loved me. He said
he’d never hurt me.

XX. amoretto, n.

I was warm then;
I thought it boundless.
I wrote his name
in different styles in the
margins of my notebooks.

I lost focus in every class.
Doodles— abstract shapes, hearts—
left on every scrap of paper
in my backpack. I wrote
poems, left them in his locker.

XXI. nightertime, n.

Mx. Archer asks
if I want to eat lunch in their room,
if that’s why I haven’t left.
I shrug, nod, but really,
I’m not there;

I’m still lying in bed at
three in the morning, looking
at my phone, reading the last
message he sent me to make sure
I understood each word.

XXII. chuddies, n.

The chill of the metal chair
on my thighs brings me back.
I regret that New Tori decided
her style is yoga shorts and large sweatshirts
regardless of the weather outside or in.

Bell rings and I’ve eaten nothing
again. Frustration builds up behind my eyes;
I’m supposed to be better than this now.
Mx. Archer throws a granola bar at my desk,
tells me to eat it on my way to class.

XXIII. gist, v.

Suffice it to say
I inhaled the granola bar
on the way to English.
I listen to Big Freedia,
need to explode to start anew.

XXIV. menehune, n.

How could I have ever thought
I could start over
overnight, as if
it would ever be that simple?
I need to confront him.

XXV. yo, int. and n.

Chemistry. That’s when
I’ll see him next. That’s when
I’ll tell him what’s on my mind. 
I spend English drafting the words
I need to say to make him understand.

XXVI. drooking, n.

I stand outside the chemistry room,
waiting for him to show up.
I take a sip from my water bottle
when I see him round the corner
holding Melanie’s hand.

There’s a white flash and I feel
my fingers tighten into a fist,
a scratch grow inside my throat.
My water bottle points at
his waterlogged hat and shirt.

XXVII. grrr, v.

In my chest, a beehive
hit with a baseball bat,
their wings bristle against my skin.
I fly away before he says a word,
before an adult makes me talk about it.

XXVIII. mosker, v.

What was once vibrant, warm,
soured, cold and bitter as coffee dregs.
My throat on fire, I heave
by the mailboxes in the
neighborhood behind the school.

It’s over. There was never any chance.
You don’t get a fresh start.
You will always be the second choice,
alone, a fucked up girl
no one will remember.

XXIX. sabo, n.

He knew I’d be there.
He knew I’d see them.
He must have wanted me
to see them together, to see
how he’s moved on already.

They’re probably laughing now
at what a fool I am to believe
there was any possibility
of reconciliation, to believe
I am worth anything to anyone.

XXX. ablepsy, n.

My vision gets blurry, goes black.
I sit on the curb, dig my headphones
out of my pockets. My phone trembles
in my hands; I can’t see the screen,
can’t make the sounds to activate Siri.

Silence envelops me. I drop my phone,
don’t hear it hit the asphalt.
My breathing becomes muted; my chest
heaves, but there’s no sound— no air.
I don’t know what to do.

XXXI. jack-o’-lantern, n.

A light, an arm's length away,
appears, slowly retreats. I reach for
the light, a face amongst the dark, which
welcomes me, accepts me.
Why is it leaving?

I reach, lose balance; my palms,
knees slam the road. Pebbles
make homes in my skin. The light
fades like the sun over the horizon.
I evaporate as mist in the void.

Always Empty

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2022.

I. ghost hunt, n.

There’s just something missing
on the battlefield.
The thrill of the kill is there,
the electricity of bloodlust,
but iron helmets, visors
hide their eyes.

I want to watch the waves
calm within their irises.

II. beeline, v.

In the old days,
I’d strike from a shadow,
dagger to throat.

I could feel
the tremble of their larynx
on the blade’s edge
with my fingertips.

III. tots, n.

There’s a big celebration at camp
after our victory in battle.

My steps through blood-soaked dirt
become steps through drunken soil,
potatoes float in puddles of wine and ale.

They toast me as I pass,
slurred cheers of “Captain!”
I feel so empty.

IV. fabulism, n.

There was a future in my head
when I started down this road.

It did not include power, status;
it included revenge.

V. leading light, n.

A singular ember
in my chest —
A dense anger.

A vision of their bodies,
rivulets of blood
over the edge of our bed.

VI. endarkenment, n.

Their corpses felt me
empty.

The rush of the kill
from a just vengeance, 
did not fill the void.

I left town, got a job
doing the only thing
that made me feel alive.

VII. amazake, n.

A soldier hands me a chalice
of some drink or other
as I enter the captain’s tent.

A strategist from the capitol
holds up a communication scroll
bearing the king’s face.

He congratulates me on the victory,
rambles about honor and other shit
he knows I don’t care about.

VIII. Monogyne, n.

When you hold someone’s light
in the palms of your hands,
get to choose when and how
you clench your fist, see it rise
like steam between your knuckles— that
is power. That is the feeling
of control, of being alive.

IX. altaltissimo, n.

Does this dude ever
take his crown off?

When I bound my fate to his,
I didn’t anticipate
having to listen to his
incessant blathering
after every victory.

It’s not even for me—
it’s for the nobles who believe
his brother suffered a fatal heart attack.

X. anjeer, n.

I look at the palm of my glove
while King NeverShutsUp tangents
to lofty goals for the next year.

It’s stained with dried blood— mine
and others, probably— I don’t remember
when they were washed last.

It looks like a noble’s robe would
after a festival, covered with remnants
of spilled wine, fallen fruit— trophies.

XI. rachmanism, n.

The strategist drops the scroll
when he applauds for the king
as he talks about defending
the freedoms of his subjects.

This behavior is beyond me.
‘Freedom’ and ‘subjects’
don’t seem like complimentary terms,
but I don’t collect tax revenue,

so what do I know.

XII. sibsomeness, n.

Sometimes, I fear
what will happen to me
if the king has his way—
peace comes to the kingdom
and he no longer needs me
or my protection.

XIII. nash-gab, n.

The king asks questions about the battle
after the comm scroll with his head
has been properly restored.

My answers are short,
my nods curt.

I wonder what it would be like 
if he didn’t fear me
or he actually cared about the details.

XIV. deliverology, n.

I met the King
when he was a prince
in a tavern on the outskirts
of his territory. Peasant clothes
to hide his nobility or feign camaraderie,
a pint in his hand. 

He slurred through ways
the kingdom could be better
under his name. Cheers and ale
bounced off the walls with his exclamations.

I asked what he was willing to pay.

XV. xennial, n. and adj.

In the predawn dark, he was torn
between the traditions of his older brother
and the ideals of the youth in his bones.

But he saw it, for a moment,
in the flickering candlelight: the crown
on his head, the power in his voice.

He offered piles of gold, a legal pardon;
the future boredom was palpable.
He stammered, sweat on his temples.

I asked for a seat on his council,
command of his army. He thought me
a mindless killer. We shook hands.

XVI. psionic, adj.

He never asked me how
I got rid of the king.

People don’t like hearing the details
of shadow magic, especially, I assume

when your power would be questioned
if anyone ever found out.

I use it on the battlefield still:
pits that swallow squadrons;

shadows that consume brains,
flood the whites of their eyes.

After our first victory, he asked me
how it was done. I told him, “Like before.”

XVII. segotia, n.

The king closes his address
by inviting us for a feast at his castle.
The strategist accepts the invitation
for both of us: a knee jerk reaction.

The king’s face fades
into the off-white of the scroll.
He looked excited to see the people
he considers his friends.

XVIII. bird dog, n.

The road back to the city is long.
Soldiers practically skip in anticipation
for a warm welcome home,
feasts with their families.

I keep seeing faces in tree bark—
faces I’ve seen before,
ones I haphazardly sent into shadows
before the king found me.

XIX. requiescat, n.

Part of me remembers my wife—
the way she’d knead sourdough
with the heel of her hand, singing
a melody in the morning light.
I miss her then, want her soul to feel
peace.

But then, I see her fingers entangled
in the hair of someone else: the alchemist
with smooth hands; a thick, braided beard.
I see their slit throats, their blood pooling
on a bed I could never return to, and I wish her soul
pain.

XX. parapublic, adj.

The king’s army is made
of young men who break rank
as we travel through a village
outside the city walls.

Rundown buildings,
families in tattered clothes,
who anticipate their return,
who worry about and love them.

XXI. adyt, n.

I don’t stop them from running
to the open arms of their families.

I don’t force them to walk
through the city to the castle.

I don’t subject them to the king’s
lengthy speeches, empty accolades.

I don’t pressure them to eat
mediocre roast in the king’s dining hall.

That’s a job for me.

XXII. binge-watching, n.

Does this guy ever shut up?
It’s astounding
he’s capable of eating any food
while moving from story to story.
Is anyone even listening?

XXIII. sharenting, n.

I look between family portraits
which line the walls
of the dining hall.

So many stoic children
forced to stand at attention
in perpetuity.

Would it be so bad
if someone pruned
this tree?

XXIV. garbler, n.

A tendril of shadow
coils around my boot,
slithers over dried blood.

I left a sham marriage
just to enter into
the cage of power. 

Misery and emptiness
follow me like anchors
slogging through loose sand.

The shadow is hungry. I
am hungry. My fingers
twitch, nails ready

to dig into flesh.

XXV. nosey, v.

Pay attention to the small actions:
the way he flicks his wrist,
talks with both arms,
saunters across the hall.

There’s information hidden there
that’ll help identify his weak spots,
expose patterns he never talks about.
That’s what I need to kill him.

XXVI. stepford, adj.

The castle guard wear similar armor—
shiny, the king’s sigil on the breast
strong, but inflexible, slow.

They go through rigorous training,
all of them, mastering the same techniques,
exposing the same weak spots.

XXVII. pretenture, n.

Humans build to keep out enemies,
but shadows flow over them with ease.
Yet another example of overconfidence,
misunderstanding of our world’s nature.

I slip along the lines of mortar between
the castle’s stone, let threads of void
ensnare the guards, flood their eyes
with visions of tortured, mangled bodies.

XXVIII. melpomenish, adj.

The king’s chamber is filled with
garish trinkets—  objects to look at,
no utility.

Under thick quilts with intricate designs,
his snores mix with the fireplace’s crackling.
No challenge.

I envelope the flame in a shadowy blanket,
knock a goblet off the mantlepiece
for the drama.

His shoulders shift, a bleary investigation.
His face when his eyes fell on me—
exquisite.

XXIX. anonymuncule, n.

He begs, pleads for his life,
offers riches, titles, land.

He says they’ll find me out, whisper
my name in every corner of the kingdom.

Even in death, he
just never shuts up.

I grip his heart in a shadowy fist,
feel its rhythmic tremors.

I squeeze until it finally stops,
until he’s finally silent,

until the waves in his irises
become stagnant pools.

XXX. leso, n.

I rearrange his body and his blankets
to look like his heart failed in his sleep.

Intricate patterns, expensive dyes, his quilt
reminds me of the dresses my wife wore

back when she was alive. And, like that,
a void settles in my chest again.

Always empty. All is fleeting.
I exit under the cover of the dark moon.

A Gap Where You Used to Be

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2022.

I. dining room, n.

Long, rectangular table.
Six chairs, all taken
but one—
yours.

II. administrivia, n.

I know you know
what you’re doing, and
you know I know
you’re capable of caring of yourself, but
you also know
I worry.

III. hanbok, n.

I remember when
they announced your name—
you walked across the stage,
they gave you a case for your diploma,
you shook your principal’s hand.
I was so proud of you.

IV. railipotent, adj.

So, why don’t you talk to me anymore?
Was I so bad to you?
Raising you the way I did?
You’re grown up at college now
and don’t need your mother?

V. belukar, n.

I guess—
I just thought—
I know we didn’t talk much
for a while,
but after moving out,
maybe you’d reach out more.

VI. clear-cut, n.

There was something in your eyes
when we said goodbye to you
after helping you move into your dorm.
I hoped I was imagining it,
but the truth lies
in your silence.

VII. pinguinitescent, adj.

Do you remember
the soccer season banquet
when you were seven?

You ate too much pizza,
deciding you were old enough
to fill your own plate
at the buffet.

The picture of you, your pizza-covered face,
your coach and trophy, hangs
in the living room by the window.

VIII. poddle, v.

On Sundays, we all
walk to the park by the lake,
with a gap

where you used to be.

IX. chiptune, n.

We used to play
the Legend of Zelda —
well, you’d play it,
I’d listen to you tell me about it —
after you finished your homework.

We were
so much closer
then.

X. dogfood, v.

I’ve tried reaching out
to you
several times,
but deleted the message
each time.

Practicing each sentence
with possible tones
you may put on them.

There are too many variables,
and I don’t want to be a burden.

XI. reginal, adj.

I work all day,
care for your siblings.
I’ve always done
my best.
I deserve more respect
than this.

XII. muso, n.

I drink my morning coffee
across the living room
from your piano.

I miss the songs you’d play
as I got home from work,
your smile.

XIII. chipperness, n.

I put on a smile
when Janet sees me
examining coffee creamer
at Safeway.

She asks how you’re doing
at Western.

I tell her some vague stories,
based on movies I’ve seen,
and how proud I am of you,
based on reality.

XIV. abacist, n.

Maybe you’re just busy
with your classes, new friends.

Maybe you need to stand on your own
and don’t want your mom holding you down.

Maybe I didn’t react the right way
when you came out to me.

XV. maleficate, v.

You used to come to me
for advice,
until you started hanging out with
that boy.

All of a sudden, I was
always wrong
and you started building a wall
between us.

XVI. fáinne, n.

I just don’t get it.

I donated to that Trevor Project
you always post about.
I got one of those
rainbow borders for my profile picture.

I don’t know
what else you want.

XVII. simpulum, n.

I lit a candle
for you
under the stained-glass window 
at church
so that God could hear me
and steer you back
to me.

XVIII. buddha dharma, n.

Some may say
I should act with compassion,
give you time; 
you will reach out
when you’re ready.

They don’t know
the pain
gnawing at my ribs.

XIX. passionable, adj.

I’m an emotional person.
You know that.

Yes, I cried
when you told me.
Yes, I realize
that upset you.

But, it felt like
the futures for you in my head
died, turned to ash
like those snake fireworks.

It took me time to understand,
but I still love you.

XX. ecopoiesis, n.

So, I may have told Janet
you have a girlfriend.

I didn’t quite realize it, but really,
it’s easier this way—
you know how she talks
with the other church ladies.

I just don’t think
they’d be able to handle the idea 
one of the boys they taught catechism to
is gay.

You would understand,
wouldn’t you?

XXI. rhyparography, n.

I was cleaning your room — I swear —
and I came across an old shoebox
with that boy’s name on it.
I’m sorry, I looked;
I couldn’t help it.
It was full of notes he wrote to you.
I didn’t even know
kids still passed paper notes.
Such beautiful handwriting of
such filthy language.

XXII. ankimo, n.

Yesterday was your birthday,
we had your favorite dinner in your honor,
and Western emailed me that tomorrow
is Family Weekend.

The signs were all there:
I have to drive up to see you.

XXIII. muskoka chair, n.

Your father won’t come with me.

He says he can’t get time off
from the hospital
and also that me going is a bad idea.

He was repotting the monstera
he allowed to take over
that chair from his garden.

He just doesn’t get it.

XXIV. mamaguy, v.

As I back out of the driveway,
go through the labyrinth
of our neighborhood,
I brainstorm
what to say to you when I get there.

A joke, maybe, a nickname
from your childhood,
when we were close.
Maybe that’ll bridge the gap,
since I didn’t call you beforehand.

XXV. amakhosi, n.

North on 167, I drive by
the huge hill in Auburn 
we used to live on,
the arena they built
over the field your track meets were on,
the bowling alley
we had your birthday parties at.

XXVI. coboss, int.

405 is jammed,
more than usual.
Probably
other families
going to Western to see
their kids 
who actually tell them 
what’s going on in their lives.

XXVII. dark side, n.

The signs were always there, I guess,
like the absence of birds before a storm.

Your first grade teacher called one day,
saying you were hugging another boy
and smelling his hair.

I talked to you about it,
thinking it was a personal-bubble
misunderstanding.

I should have
paid better attention
to what they told you in school.

Why would you do this
to me?

XXVIII. curatorium, n.

Anger froths
like baking soda and vinegar.

It was probably
those grooming teachers
poisoning your mind.

That boy
or your friends
tearing you away from me.

Those shady social networks
with their algorithms 
twisting the knife.

Why else would you end up this way?
Why else would you stop talking to me?

XXIX. birdikin, n.

You were
so precious
when you were younger,
so fragile—
when you were my child.

What happened? What
went wrong? What could
I have done differently?

XXX. wabi-sabi, adj. and n.

You are still my son.
You are worth my time.
You are worth
saving.

A line of dominoes
tumbles up my spine.
I pull over to the shoulder,
put the car in park.

Why do I see you as
imperfect?
When did I come to that
conclusion?

XXXI. scooptram, n.

You don’t want to see me.
I can’t blame you, because
I never really saw you.

On the edge of Mount Vernon,
I watch cars
cross the Skagit River bridge,
the one that collapsed
when you were young.

They drive by
unflinching,
leave me behind.

Odds & Evens

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from February, 2022.

I. bak kwa, n.

A new year, another long day
corralling teenagers into
an English class reading a book
half of them won’t open.

Stayed late again, grading essays,
finalizing semester grades.
The smell of pork in our foyer
from the dinner you’re cooking.

II. crafternoon, n.

You’ve been working late,
like every other January.
The sun sets before you’re home —
before you even start driving,
I’m sure. I created a sun
using some tissue paper from
the tub of wrapping stuff in the closet,
hang it over the gas fireplace, switched on,
so you could bask in its warmth.

III. haterade, n.

For 15 minutes, I ramble
about the grading system erroring out
all afternoon,
making me hand-enter each grade
for my 170 students.

You listen patiently
to complaints I’ve made
so many times before.

IV. orthogonally, adv.

After I place food on the table,
you take your usual seat
on the side of the table to my right —
the same seat you took
on our first date years ago,
saying that
the seat directly across from me
would be too far away.

V. shakebuckler, n.

I finally stop talking and
ask about your day.

You talk about the traffic downtown
on your way to city hall,
an argument you had with
Councilmember Meyers
about building better infrastructure
for busses and bikes around town.
“He said to me, no joke,
‘You bring this issue up
at every damn council meeting.
We simply don’t have the funds.’
And then, when I brought up
last year’s increase to police funding,
he slapped the folder out of my hand!”

VI. antiquating, n.

Meyers has been
— and always will be —
stuck in the past.
I’ve argued with him
— constantly —
throughout my entire tenure
on city council.

VII. oojamaflip, n.

There’s a term you always use
to describe Councilmember Meyers
that I can never remember
until you say it again.

The memory plays back,
but the audio muffles.
I see your smile, I hear our laughter,
but I can’t hear the word.

VIII. froideur, n.

I continue,
“It’s like he can’t even entertain the idea
he might be wrong or
should change course
ever. He just double-downs on
every. single. issue.
Even Louis Armstrong would call him
a moldy fig.”

You laugh.

IX. chicken finger, n.

Some students eat in my room at lunch —
the commons’s chaos too much for them.
They carry little cardboard bowls,
small cartons of chocolate milk.
We talk while we eat, and
they ask about you.
When I tell them about
your infrastructure bill
and Councilmember Meyers,
they are as heated as you were
at dinner last night.
They ask if they can do anything to help,
and I get an idea.

X. chopsy, adj.

Meyers gives a longwinded speech
at our next council meeting —
the first Monday of February.
His prattling is punctuated
by his wrinkled cheeks shaking
every time he sneers the word
“homeless.”

XI. bonze, n.

My class’s next unit
focuses on world religions,
so I invited a priest
from the Buddhist temple across town
to talk to my kids.

They talked about
community.

XII. japchae, n.

I take a long lunch
after the morning session —
long, because of the time it takes
to get to my favorite Korean restaurant across town, both
by foot (because of the distance)
or car (because of the traffic),
which are the only viable methods of travel
due to the inaction of city council.

XIII. rakeshame, n.

Kids tend to talk in simplified terms —
good people, bad people,
nothing in between.
So when my lunch group talks about
organizing a protest,
I have to remind them
(albeit begrudgingly)
that Councilmember Meyers is a person,
not a monster.

XIV. passado, n.

The restaurant is empty,
like most days,
despite signage outside detailing
their deals,
their signature dishes.
They greet me by name (and title).
I watch car after car
pass by.

XV. maple leaf, n.

The season’s last leaf whimpers
on a branch outside
my classroom window.

Change begins with
whispers on a breeze.

XVI. anecdata, n.

While my lunch cooks, the daughter
who runs the cash register tells me
her family’s history — how busy
they used to be, before
Main Street became a highway,
starving side-street restaurants
like theirs.

XVII. foul case, n. and adj.

It’s so hard to not step in
when your kids — so full
of passion, energy — 
stumble over their words,
to not take the reins.
They need to learn this,
do it themselves.
You're just there to support them.

XVIII. haggis-headed, adj.

My heart hurts as she gives me my lunch.
I want to help them, and every other
family-owned business in my district, but —
but.
I stumble over my words.
I can make promises all day;
promises don’t help people.
The laws need to change.

XIX. witches’ broom, adj.

Every day more kids show up
to prepare for a protest on the 14th.
They complain about
their families’s stores struggling,
not being able to get anywhere on their own.
They call Councilmember Meyers a fungus.

XX. whoo-ee, int.

I wake up Sunday morning
while you’re making breakfast,
my phone bursting with notifications.
The top one is a message from my assistant
with a link to an article in the Tribune
in which Councilmember Meyers
calls my plan “unamerican,”
“an attack on our way of life.”
A day before the vote and he pulls this.
I hate
how little I’m surprised.

XXI. enoughness, n.

The kids decided on a walkout
at the end of 4th period
leading to a march to City Hall.
They timed it so they would arrive
just as arguments
on the infrastructure bill
would begin. They created signs,
flooded Instagram and Snapchat,
built a crowd to overwhelm the sidewalk
they’d have to take there.

XXII. dwaal, n.

As the session gets closer,
I sift through the notecards
of my speech, eyeing
the window to the courtyard.
You said your students would arrive
as the session began. What if
they don’t show up? What if
I fumble my words? I miss the gavel
marking the start of the session;
Meyers takes the floor.

XXIII. gyaff, n.

One of my students in sixth period
tells me some parents joined the march
with wagons full of water bottles and
granola bars from Costco.
Only one-third of my students remained
at the end of the day.
I’m out of the parking lot before the buses.

XXIV. genericide, n.

Meyers moves through
the usual talking points
as a crowd forms outside.
They pour in, all these kids,
fill the balcony, signs waving 
about their independence.
His speech drowns in
their cacophony.

XXV. garderobe, n.

I have to park in the library parking lot
a block away from city hall, because
all the street parking is taken.
Some students shout to get my attention
from the middle of the crowd outside.
They clear a path for me to get inside
to the staircase to the spectator balcony.
I look over a mountain range of heads
just in time to see you stand up
to begin your speech.

XXVI. woofle, v.

“What my colleague fails to realize is that our community is growing. This growth is beyond the comprehension of our predecessors, who fervently believed that sprawling outward was their best option — an option supported by the modern real estate community and some members of city council.

“The sprawl is unsustainable, both in a physical and a communal sense. We have neighborhoods extending out of our city limits into unincorporated areas, but the children in those incorporated neighborhoods attend schools within our limits, within our care. Those children — like the children filling the balconies now — need to have access to our city’s assets: our parks, our schools, our stores. They must be able to traverse the land in our care effectively and safely- whether that be by foot, bike, or public transit.

“The dependence on cars has hurt our local businesses. Many small stores, the family businesses that built this city in the first place, are struggling, collapsing due to a declining customer base, primarily due to the siphoning of routes to Main Street and their shops being one block too far off that path.

“This bill, which I authored, allocates city funds to the creation and maintenance of resources to fix these problems: sidewalks on streets within school zones, bike lanes on major roads throughout the city, buses with more accessible and reliable routes.

“Certain members of this council have called this plan ‘unamerican.’ And, they are are correct if we only take an antiquated view of what America was. If we look at what America is, what America could be, this plan is as American as it gets.

“The vitriol with which some members of city council use to denigrate this bill is antithetical to the promises they’ve made to support their constituents and their community.

“We should be fighting for our community. We should be fighting for the independence of empowerment of our youth. We should be fighting for our local businesses. We need this bill to aid in these fights.

“Thank you.”

XXVII. antical, adj.

Thunderous applause
as you step away from the podium.
Your name
chanted by students in the balcony.
Your face
so full of pride, confidence, triumph.
You wave
when you find my face in the crowd.

My heart is so full.
I love you so much.
I am so proud of you.

XXVIII. jump-up, n.

The path of progress
has a steep incline,
many switchbacks,

but eventually, we will
reach the summit; the future —
the line where the sky and ridge meet.

There is no one else
I’d rather be on this journey with
than you.

A Traveler’s Hymn

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2022.

I. caravette, n.

He packed his bags and threw them back
behind the driver’s seat.
His destination was not known,
but still he headed east.

The engine revved, the shifter clicked,
and gravel stirred below.
His horn honked twice, he waved his arm,
and turned onto the road.

II. limbo, v.

The highway’s flat and straight until
the city’s skyline spouts
and overpasses form above
his head so full of doubt.

He ducked his head — no logic there —
when under every one.
And all the morning, he did chase
his guiding light: the sun.

III. hagiologist, n.

He prayed to Bona, Pisa’s saint,
as dusk became the night.
She watches over travelers, when
the sun is not so bright.

His eyes were heavy, night was young;
at some point he must stop.
He hoped that Bona'd keep him safe;
his head his arm did prop.

IV. chutzpasik, adj.

He drove nonstop throughout the night
to see the coast at dawn.
Not tired, he said, then shook his head
when lines began to yawn.

His car’s warm hood, while parked askew,
sent steam into the sky.
The sun did peek from o’er the sea;
its beauty made him cry.

V. hagfish, n.

When hunger fin'lly sank its teeth
into his quiv’ring ribs,
he walked across the parking lot,
and tore off trash can lids.

He dug around to find some food
inside curled fast food bags.
A bite or two to get him through
that morning’s final drag.

VI. belongingness, n.

He ate, returned to beach’s edge,
and inhaled salty air.
He combed his matted hair by wind
and at horizon stared.

He breathed in tandem with the sea —
the tidal ebb and flow.
He wanted this to last fore’er,
but knew he had to go.

VII. driving box, n.

The driver’s seat was worn and cold
and sighed when sat upon.
He had to find a job so that
he’d have new clothes to don.

His wrinkled shirt from Applebee’s
was fading, tearing more.
It’d lasted sev’ral summers, but
no longer could be worn.

VIII. up a daisy, int.

He drove until a hiring sign
did fin’lly ‘pear downtown,
then par’lleled parked across the street,
the visor’s mirror down.

A deep breath there, then slapped his face 
and stared into his eyes.
“You got this, Adam,” said he then,
and donned a clip-on tie.

IX. ghostbuster, n.

“For months now, we have heard these wails
from down below the shop.
We’re ‘fraid a spirit’ll one day rise,
the floor our blood will mop.

“Now, I’ve been told a spell exists,
or something science-y,
to rid us of this blight. Can you?
We’d pay you handsomely.”

X. inadvisably, adv.

No hesitation in his voice,
he took the job and said,
“I’ve never failed to catch a ghost
or zombie or undead.”

The shopkeep pointed to the door
that to the basement lead.
His confidence successf’lly hid
a plan to fake instead.

XI. gee-whizzery, n.

Atop the stairs, she left him there
to go down on his own.
Her glasses fogged with nervous sweat,
her legs were heavy stone.

He closed the door to hide his work
and falsify results.
So dark and cold, a thick’ning fog
reveals something occult.

XII. zom-com, n.

A paw broke through the concrete floor
with saggy, patchy flesh.
Long nose and tail, now on all fours,
teeth flared to eat afresh.

Then Adam reached behind his back
to find something to throw.
He didn’t know ’til out his hand,
it was a squeaky bone.

XIII. scrimmaging, adj.

Like lightning, pounced the dog on bone,
whose squeaks to heaven cried.
Its rubber shards like mist in fog;
its tone grew low and died.

The dog’s eye sockets, empty voids,
to Adam turned at once.
T’ward him a blur of fur did dash 
like he’s the prey it hunts.

XIV. bridle-wise, adj.

In grade school, Adam wrangled cows
at Uncle Nathan’s ranch.
When bored of ropes and tying knots,
he’d settle calves by hand.

His callused palms had softened since,
but muscle mem’ry stayed.
He took a stance to catch the dog
in order to get paid.

XV. ghoulishness, n.

He caught the dog with thund’rous boom,
the hind legs in his hands.
The sound of crackling tendons popped
like snapping rubber bands.

Adrenaline had blinded him,
so fearing for his life.
Removed both legs, then broke each bone
and grabbed his pocketknife.

XVI. summum malum, n.

To throat he took his knife to slice
to separate the brain
from body; with no signal then
on concrete floor it lain.

From out the neck, a thicker fog
as black as void did rise.
It filled the walls, and ‘cross the room,
as red as blood, were eyes.

XVII. sitooterie, n.

Engulfed in black, no gravity
nor distance clear, alert
he was to all. A canvas rip 
below him revealed dirt.

He staggered back onto his feet.
A willow tree gave shade
to chairs, a man in tailored suit
with red eyes said his name.

XVIII. cardioid, n. and adj.

“Now Adam, why would you do that?
My heart, you drive a stake.”
His voice consumed all other sound,
left silence in his wake.

“You’ve killed my dog, I can’t forgive
this slight upon my house.”
He raised his palm, a flash of light,
in flames, the willow doused.

XIX. garden bean, n.

While burning branches fell around
his twitchy, icy hands,
he balled his fists, assumed the stance
that he, for ages, planned.

He knew the man with eyes of blood
would find him once again.
His constant moving to escape
from every demon sent.

XX. fantysheeny, adj.

His pocketknife, passed down to him
on father’s bed of death,
vibrated harsh — a phantom pain,
perhaps his final breath.

Unsheathed then clicked the blade in place,
glowed yellow, orange by flame.
“I’ll exorcise you with this knife
that bares my father’s name.”

XXI. baje, adj. and n.

He lunged with blade in hand and dodged
a fist engulfed in fire.
He stabbed with a calypso beat
against the well-dressed pyre.

So many holes, his knife did leave,
in that maroon suit coat.
No blood did pour around its waist,
no fibers drenched or soaked.

XXII. witching, n.

Despair set in; defeat was near —
he’d die without a sound.
Blue waves of light flowed ‘crossed his knife;
he spotted dewy ground.

He plunged the blade into the spot,
then twisted it in place.
His arm aimed toward the eyes of blood
set in his father’s face.

XXIII. spirit-stirring, adj.

He felt a stream of water flow
from blade through arm to chest.
A geyser ‘rupted out his palm
at he so finely dressed.

He heard a scream, ethereal,
while launching his attack.
His father’s howling scream was there
to take his body back.

XXIV. meet-cute, n.

The flames extinguished, eyes of blood
evaporated then
in mist unholy darkened sky.
His father back again.

The sky, grown black, engulfed the tree
and everything around.
He woke up ‘gainst the shopkeep’s chair,
the basement door unbound.

XXV. ram-stam, adj., adv., and n.

He wiped his hair, and dust and ash 
cascaded to the floor.
“Your problem’s gone, I guarantee.
No ghosts will haunt your store.

“About your door, I’m sorry that
I broke it off its hinge,
but can your help me to my feet?
my lower back’s a twinge.”

XXVI. jai, int.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, so, so much!
The door is no big deal,
‘cause you have saved us all. Can I
repay you with a meal?”

She blushed, and o’er her ear she brushed
her soft magenta hair.
She did not meet his eyes, because
the floor is where she stared.

XXVII. toydom, n.

His heart still fast, like jumbled words,
the pictures in his head.
His vocal cords did vibrate, but
he knew not what he said.

She helped him off the floor and walked
across the shop. Sunset.
His body moved all on its own —
strung like a marionette.

XXVIII. swag, n.

A wave had crashed along the shore
as they had sauntered by.
His lungs were full of salty air;
he felt he’d never die.

His thoughts and limbs back in control;
his body fully his.
He fin’lly asked her ‘bout herself;
she said she goes by Liz.

XXIX. banteringly, adv.

The restaurant Liz chose was lit
by candlelight’s dim glow.
The sun, which set o’er harbor west,
was split by masts of boats.

They joked about the days they had
way after food was done.
The conversation was so nice,
he felt no want to run.

XXX. drivel, n.

The truest form of ease, of home,
is when you talk about
whatever happens to come up,
as free as geysers’s spouts.

So, Liz and Adam talked all night
until they kicked them out.
But then, they just walked ‘round the pier —
a moonlit walkabout.

XXXI. haggard, n.

Throughout the night, unceasingly,
his thoughts returned to home:
an aging farm, his father back
to tend it on his own.

He built a shell, their future pruned,
he tried to not look sad.
“As much as I would like to stay,
I need to help my dad."

Through a Fog

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2021.

I. padfoot, n.

They sit cross-legged,
back against the fence,
head low,

next to a rock
the size of a football
painted in blue and green swirls.

They murmur between deep breaths,
place a dandelion by the rock,
walk back inside their mom's house.

II. mycophilia, n.

Their stepmom is in the kitchen
humming to herself,
slicing white mushrooms,
throwing them into a saucepan.

They walk along the wall opposite her,
a balance between quick and stealth,
in an attempt to avoid any opportunity
for her to ask how they’re feeling.

III. whangai, n.

Successfully back in their room
unnoticed, they sit on their bed,
open their laptop from school,
get greeted by a log-in screen with
a first name
they wish would die,
a last name from a woman
they wish would leave.

IV. good-sister, n.

“Hey Z,” Layla, their brother’s wife, says
as she enters their room.
Since their brother’s deployment,
Layla has come over each Sunday
after her morning shift at Applebee’s.
She flops on the bed,
releasing a wave of french-fry-scented air.

V. goodsire, n.

“Your grandpa told me
dinner should be ready in about an hour,”
Layla says as she digs through her apron.
“Should be enough time
for the next episode
of Wild Wild Country.”
She retrieves a joint and her lighter, 
as is tradition.

VI. micromania, n.

While the citizens of Antelope
describe how the Rajneeshees
overthrew their local government,
Z stares at their toes
shrinking in the foreground
of their laptop’s keyboard.
Maybe their whole body with shrivel,
finally take up less space.
What kind of life is it 
when your sister-in-law is the only one
who uses your name?

VII. mumblecore, n.

They lose the thread
when Layla goes on about
a movie she watched last week
they’ve never heard of.
Everything spirals back into place
as they realize the episode’s credits
are scrolling by.
Dinner must be almost ready.

VIII. humidex, n.

After establishing an alibi
for their bloodshot eyes,
they walk with Layla
into the dining room.
Sweat drips down their spine.
Their neck aches,
their breaths shallow.

IX. urbanscape, n.

Luckily, their stepmom doesn’t notice
Layla and Z enter the dining room,
too busy going on about
her trip to the glass museum downtown
with her friends and their kids
which Z wasn’t invited to.

X. boody, v.

Z experiences dinner
through a fog.

They eat silently,
can’t hear anyone.

XI. gribble, adj.

You can’t be that surprised. You’re not her real kid. She wanted to be with your mom. You were just part of the package. Maybe Nevaeh left your mom because she just wanted to get away from you. You’ve probably always stood in the way of your mom's happiness. You are just a burden. When people talk about pride, they aren’t talking about you. When people talk about liberation, they aren’t talking about you.

XII. necessarium, n.

Put on pajamas. Go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. A bottle of melatonin. A bathtub and hair dryer. A razor with a loose blade. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

XIII. human, adj. and n.

While dreaming,
Z isn’t confined
to the body they were born in,
which locks them in a box
 people force on them.

They can exist
in a body
free of gender.

XIV. hens and chickens, n.

When Z wakes up, they feel it
wash over them in waves.
Dread of confinement
in a body that doesn’t fit.
Pressure to be someone else
by everyone around them.
Hunted by an idea
of who they’re supposed to be.

XV. yom kippur, n.

Not wanting to be a burden
to everyone around them, 
Z takes up less space.
They don’t eat.
They don’t speak.
Maybe this will make up for
how much they’ve worn out the people
who have had to put up with them.

XVI. spiritdom, n.

After school,
Z sits in their backyard
watching their dog’s ghost
chase squirrels
through their mom’s garden.

XVII. min-min, n.

Lights float somewhere
above the roof of their house.
Closer than a star.
Blurry and flat
like an out-of-focus comet.
They imagine
Herry chasing a bone
across the Milky Way.

XVIII. urbs, n.

Z thinks about graduation —
just a few months away now —
then moving to the city
for school, maybe, but mostly
to get away from this house.

In the city,
they can be their true self
without the shackles of their family,
knowing it is also
without the stars they can watch
Herry chase bones across.

XIX. hearty, adj., n., and adv.

Sometimes, Z isn’t actually sure
they’ll make it to graduation.
They drag an anchor
down every hallway
until exhaustion grips
their heart and brain and
nothing seems worth all the effort.

XX. boohai, n.

alone, engulfed
in the smoke from pickups trucks
without mufflers.

XXI. tziganologue, n.

What if
there is nowhere
you will be accepted
you for who you are?

Maybe
no one else will ever
call you your name.
You may be alone
forever.

XXII. paddling pool, n.

Z sits on the side of the cafeteria
with friends who forget
what their name is,
who say it changes too often
to deserve extra effort.

If high school is this
and the future is made of
people like them,
then why would it be
worth getting to.

XXIII. almondine, adj.

Z walks in
from the backyard,
past the living room
where their stepmom
sits on the couch
eating almonds.
She asks “Aaron”
if they want any,
clearly forgetting
their name, their allergy.
As usual.

XXIV. garden room, n.

From their room,
Z stares out the window
toward the backyard.
They wonder about the height,
how fast they would fall,
the force with which they’d land
on their stepmom’s tomato plants.

XXV. feastly, adj.

At dinner, they savor every
last bite.

Their mom,
home for dinner for the first time in weeks,
takes a large scoop of
the macaroni and cheese
she spent the evening making.

Z eats
until their stomach hurts.

XXVI. slow-bellied, adj.

A full stomach,
they take slow, deliberate steps
up the staircase.

Committed, still,
to the plan they made
completely.

XXVII. pacable, adj.

It used to be bearable,
when Herry was alive,
when he could comfort them
after a hard day.
But since he died,
each day
feels more torturous
than the last.

XXVIII. almuten, n.

A force beyond words.
A slow crescendo inside their skull.
Words they cannot ignore:
You are a burden;
Nobody wants you here;
You do not belong;
Everything you touch decays.

XXIX. hat tip, n.

Cold air through an open window.
Cold words on crumpled paper.
Cold acrylic of a bathtub.
Cold steel of a razor blade.

XXX. alogical, adj. and n.

There isn’t really a word
for the grief that drowns you
when you find your child
dead in their bathroom.

There especially isn’t a word
for the waves of grief and guilt
when you find your partner’s kid,
who you never particularly cared for,
bled white, their final note
in your trembling hand.

Maybe you don’t go back

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2021.

I. placcy, adj. (and n.)

You’ve avoided
the inside of grocery stores
for over a year.

A pickup order every week,
Fred Meyer insists on
using their own plastic bags.

Your bag of tote bags in the trunk
remains unused;
your stash of plastic bags under the sink
steadily grows.

II. pseudosopher, n.

Your brother’s podcast plays
as you drive up Meridian,
back to your apartment,
so you can know which propaganda
the algorithm served him this month —
which arguments to have and avoid
at the family reunion.

III. zizzy, adj.

The engine revs louder
as you climb the hill
passed the fairground.
As you pass
the assisted living facility
across the street
from the private Christian school,
the sky —
orange with wildfire ash —
comes into view.

IV. bearding, n.

Your brother’s voice
becomes a yell
as you turn
down the side road
to your apartment.

He yells about 
a fraudulent election
orchestrated the bankers
and Hollywood elite.

You know he
means Jewish people.

V. off time, n.

Your Absence has been Approved

This email is to notify you that your requested absence has been approved. The following are the details of the absence:

Leave type: Personal
Start date: Friday, August 13, 2021
End date: Monday, August 16, 2021
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VI. baku, n.

You watch
as buildings shrink
under the wing of your plane.

You sigh
as the hypothetical
gender critical rant
by your aunt 
in your head
fades
under Antonioni’s "Malcomer"
as you secure earbuds
in your ears.

VII. lotophagous, adj.

You read
the same line in your book
four times
without realizing it.
The words unfocus into
ridges of a nurse log along
a trail you’re hiking
alone.
You swear
your partner was with you,
but they’re gone.
Their voice flows
through ponderosa pines;
you feel calmer.

VIII. goombay, n.

Awoken by the thumps of
wheels against runway.
Your heart carries the rhythm
as your book falls
off your lap
onto your bag between your feet.

IX. chicken rice, n.

Among the din of impatient passengers
waiting to leave,
you feel so alone.
You start to text your partner
to tell them you landed,
unsure whether they’re
sleeping or driving to work —
you feel like an inconvenience.
You wish they were here,
but remember
how they said
during their first post-reunion dinner
they couldn’t do it again
after last time.

X. muharram, n.

Your father meets you at baggage claim.
Happy to see you, but somewhat hurried,
he keeps staring
beyond you.
Following his gaze, you find
a hijabi woman
waiting for her luggage.
He remarks how
she’s “just been standing there,”
wonders how
“those people are even allowed on planes.”
You gather your thoughts enough to start
explaining how wrong and racist he’s being.
He waves his hand at you,
says, “Better safe than sorry.”

XI. oscines, n.

His truck is loud;
his radio is louder.
He attempts to yell over
the hair metal shaking the door frames
to ask you about your flight.
You struggle to focus
on anything.

XII. machinina, n.

When you arrive at home,
you ask for some time to unpack and nap —
the problem with red eye flights is
the sleep you get is always subpar.
Your bedroom is as it was
before you graduated.
Posters on the walls,
notebooks on your desk,
a stack of novels on the floor by your bed.
When you sit on the comforter,
you remember the nights you couldn’t sleep,
where you’d watch Red vs. Blue
until three in the morning.

XIII. owczarek, n.

Groggy, half-awake,
you hear paws pat at the door.
A head rush as you sit up.
You barely turn the knob
before the door flies open,
a white blur rushes in,
lunges at you, licks your face.
They somehow still remember you.

XIV. chinchy, adj.

You finally feel prepared for your family.
You leave your room,
walk down the hallway
toward the dining room.
Around the corner, just in earshot,
you hear your parents
tell your uncle
how much you all still owe
on your student loans.
He groans about how foolish they were
to pay someone
to poison your mind.

XV. queenborough mayor, n.

When you were younger,
they’d talk about how intelligent you were.
When you were younger,
they’d praise you for your computer skills.
When you were younger,
they talked about your bright future.
When you were younger,
they repeatedly said college was important.
When you were younger,
they cheered when you got accepted.
When you were younger,
they implored you to reconsider your major.

You walk tentatively into the dining room.

XVI. oppo, n.

The subject of their conversation
shifts abruptly
when as you enter the room.
They greet you, tease you for napping,
ask how you’ve been,
how and where your partner is.
You make up a story:
they couldn’t get off work to come.
Your family accepts this and
your other short responses
to their questions.

XVII. changkol, n.

Guilt
about lying to your family.
Guilt
about how easy it was.
Guilt
digs into your bone marrow.
You
feel seedlings sprout on your forearms.

XVIII. gentlefolk, n.

Quiet for the rest of the night.
Claim to be jetlagged,
but really
just lament the actual reunion tomorrow,
when your grandmother gets there.
What questions will she ask?
What lies will you have to tell her?

XIX. busybodyism, n.

Your extended family start arriving
throughout the morning —
a caravan of pickups and trailers.
As you help
set up the food table in the garage,
you are bombarded with questions
when each new group arrives.

XX. freemium, n.

You fill a kiddie pool with ice
for the various potato and macaroni salads
when the news breaks:
The Taliban have encircled Kabul
with little resistance;
the US sends troops
to evacuate citizens from the capital.
You hear it from your father
complaining about
ungrateful savages who can’t appreciate
all that the US has done
to give them democracy.

XXI. pythoness, n.

Your mother chimes in,
says she knew
it would be a disaster
after Biden “stole” the election.
“Incompetent,” she calls him.
A bang
as she open a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
“Senile bastard.”

XXII. dangdut, n.

It is constant —
dog whistles and foghorns,
racism and conspiracy theories
you had filtered from your Facebook feed.

It is overwhelming —
your heart rate increases 
with your internal scream.
You don’t know where to begin
or how.

It is bewildering —
you’ve read so much,
but your throat tightens.
You are in a cage.

XXIII. ophiolatry, n.

Your grandmother finally arrives
in a minivan driven by your brother.
He helps her get on her Rascal scooter,
then she slowly drives herself
by each picnic table in the yard,
excitedly greeting and hugging every person
she can reach.

You brace yourself for her proximity,
her embrace, her questions, her theories.

XXIV. tom tiddler’s ground, n.

You hear your name.
She exclaims it
as soon as she turns
away from your cousin’s table.
She brings up
how long it’s been since she’s seen you.
Her questions are rapid-fire:
How is school?
What can you do with that degree?
How’s your partner? Where are they?
Why aren’t you married?
When are you going to have kids already?

You struggle to catch your breath.

XXV. irritainment, n.

They seem so coordinated,
they must have spent weeks
planning, rehearsing
what to say
to upset you.
It must be funny
to see
you silently fume,
to see
if they can find your breaking point.

XXVI. spinback, n.

When your brother
starts explaining how
Jews corrupted the US military,
siphoned off billions from the budget,
and made us lose in Afghanistan,
you’re done.
A quick rush of air catches in your throat.
The dam’s concrete fissures.
The dregs at the bottom of the lake surface.

XXVII. antwacky, adj.

You see red.
Your brother is yelling,
but he sounds far away.
He’s saying something
about his First Amendment rights.
Now, your mother is telling you
to not ruin the reunion
by taking things too seriously.
Your uncle tells you
to stop forcing your beliefs on everyone.

XXVIII. genteelism, n.

Walls are rebuilt
one goosebump at a time.
You offer an empty apology,
excuse yourself,
head back to your room.
The closed door,
a silent monolith of judgement.
Its corona filled
with shadows and laughter of people
happy to be around one another,
probably happy to not be around you.

XXIX. bonny clabber, n.

Things get quiet as night falls.
Your room’s ceiling darkens
the longer you stare at it;
you stay wide awake.
The afternoon keeps replaying,
every comment echoes.
You miss your partner;
they’d know what to do or say.
You can’t stay here anymore.

XXX. cantopop, n.

Hastily pack your suitcase,
download Lyft,
request a ride to the airport.

Leave a note on the kitchen counter
apologizing for ruining the reunion
and leaving early.

To stay awake, your driver
plays loud, uptempo music
by an artist their dash calls Zpecial.

It’s enough to make you feel far away
from that house and those people.
You can breathe again.

XXXI. merdeka, n.

In your partner’s arms barely
through the threshold of your apartment.
Welcomed. Accepted. Loved. It’s all here.
Why did you ever leave?
Maybe you don’t go back.