1930s—
A country enters colonization too late,
says they need to feed its people after an economic depression.
They invade a country
whose name originates
from an indigenous word for “field.”
2020s—
A country resurrects imperialism,
says they need to curb an influx of drugs after an economic depression.
They invade a country
who name originates
from a colonizer who saw local stilt houses and thought of an Italian city.
1870s—
Men in white masks
go into the city
to capture Black people.
Kill some, rape others.
Make a public display.
2020s—
Men with neck gaiters around their faces
go into the city
to capture brown people.
Kill some, torture others.
Make a public display.
1540s—
Children who are unresponsive or resist affection
are called changelings.
It is said they have no souls,
killing them is justified.
2020s—
Children who are unresponsive or resist affection
are called autistic.
It is said they are an epidemic,
eradication is justified.
Tag: free verse
cage-free poets
the art
one consumes
says much
about them.
the only ethical way
to read poetry is from
cage-free poets,
but its so hard to know
if their publishers
even label them properly.
i know
what you mean—
it’s so hard to find a good
true crime alternative.
they can get close, but
you can always tell it’s a little off.
yeah, i could never
date someone who
listened to an singer
without knowing
and agreeing with
their every belief.
i even leave
the grocery store
if they start playing a song
by some inorganic piece of shit.
ditch the cart in the middle
of the aisle and run.
that’s why
i only listen to
carbon-neutral singers.
they’re more open about their process
and it’s more natural—
healthier, even.
for real.
the only novelists
i read are ones with
a certifiable history of acceptable thoughts.
even their villains
have good intentions.
i go out of my way to find
fair-trade artists
who use unionized paint
in their creations.
What We Learn from Christmas Movies
The Grinch tells you
caring for others is the meaning of the holiday.
Toyota thinks you
should surprise your family with a new truck.
Chevy Chase tells you
being together is all that matters.
Model shows you
people bonding over drinking a similar beer in a football stadium.
Charlie Brown tells you
commercialism is ruining Christmas.
Sephora wants you
to smell like shirtless men in a boiler room.
Tim Allen tells you
faith and family are the most important things in life.
Royal Caribbean says you
and your family should go on a cruise to Alaska.
Rudolph tells you
being different is good.
L.L.Bean says you
should have the same quarter-zip as every other man over 25.
Will Ferrell tells you
family is more important than your job.
Meta wants you
to stalk your coworkers to find the perfect Secret Santa present.
Hero Boy tells you
to believe there’s magic in the world.
Google shows you
Santa using ai to figure out how to dress himself.
Macaulay Culkin tells you
to never leave your family behind.
2wai thinks you
should use ai to trap your aging grandmother’s soul inside your phone.
Sides of the Lake
Each side of the lake
has a neighborhood.
One has
tall houses,
wraparound decks,
private sheds, docks.
The other has
ranchers, trailers,
kayak racks,
flagpoles.
A motorboat goes by,
with a child in an inflatable tube.
A small boat coasts along the edge.
Three men stand on different sides,
fishing rods in hand.
One waves across the lake
at another boat
with other men doing the same thing.
A child stands on a paddleboard
off the shore of a backyard.
An older woman watches her
from the porch.
Another motorboat zooms by—
faster, a larger wake.
Your kayak rocks.
A single man on board,
music blaring, hair flowing in the wind.
Through the Window of Your Car
I look through the window of your car
a week after you went missing, no hope
of seeing you there.
The patience of the hardware store owner
dwindles with the police’s efforts to
organize search parties.
Flowers in the altar around your bumper
stretch into the adjacent spaces,
wilt in the autumn sun.
I come here every day after school
to tell you what you missed, no hope
of hearing your voice.
The saddest people to lay bouquets,
the same ones who bullied you
seven months ago.
They tell stories of how you joked around,
then repost some hotlines and hashtags on
their Instagram stories.
I only remember their faces
contorted in laughter after
calling you a slur.
The sun sets earlier each day.
I feel its growing shadow, no hope
of seeing you again.
An Open Spot
A heatwave swallows the mountain.
Attempt to escape.
Turn off to Trillium Lake.
A line of brake lights greets you
half a mile from the lot.
The wait and the crowd seem
less worth the trouble every minute.
Try Clear Lake next,
find a full parking lot, cars
parked illegally along the highway.
Form a new plan, wait to slip in
as people leave in the afternoon.
Drive up to Timberline Lodge,
see Trillium below, its surface
as much boat as water.
It’s hard to care about the debates of the Entmoot
when the flames of Mordor surround you.
You drive back to Timothy Lake,
through three parking lots
to find an open spot.
On the water, you stop paddling, coast in the shade.
Cold water drifts through your fingertips.
Three Assemblies in November
I.
The Friday
after a presidential election,
the school gathers in the gym.
There’s a speech, then
the concert band performs the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite veterans from the community to attend,
parade through the gym behind a banner
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
II.
The Friday
after the next presidential election,
a different school gathers in Teams meeting.
There’s a speech, then
the yearbook advisor plays a slideshow set to the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite students and staff to submit pictures and bios of veterans in their families,
honor them as integral parts of the community
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
III.
The Friday
after a third presidential election,
the school gathers in the gym.
There’s a speech, then
the concert band performs the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite veterans from the community to attend,
stand up to be recognized
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
a classroom on november third
fluorescent light
under eggshell ceiling tiles
fallen rain against the window
barely audible
under student discussion
diffuse sunlight
above papier-mâché projects
and stacks of loose folders
around the surface of the wall-length counter
Fallen pine needles
in the planter outside the window
odd angles
raindrop craters in the soil
wrinkled papers and disheveled notebooks on desks
an archipelago of unfinished work
fallen leaves in the hallway
a trail from the carpeted entryway
to the threshold of your room
fun-size candy wrappers and broken pencils
haphazard across the thin carpet
over a concrete floor
Two Canada Geese
Two Canada geese
swim out from the shadow of the tree line
along the edge of the lake.
They turn at a right angle,
travel around the dock
along the boat ramp.
A motorboat
pulls in to moor
at the end of the dock.
The geese startle,
flap their wings, spin,
give a wide berth.
They continue
to the shore, turn to continue
along the edge of the lake.
People in paddle boards,
children and dogs
crowd the shallow water.
They slalom
around the obstacles,
reconnect beyond the beach’s reach.
Two Canada geese
swim into the distance
along the edge of the lake.
Why do leaves change color in the fall?
A robot
scans an email
written by another robot,
summarizes it, generates a response,
sends it.
The human
watches a video of the president
drinking cola from a golden chalice
in his seven-fingered hand.
A robot
scans multiple pictures of a family at the Trevi Fountain,
crops out the other tourists. It
decapitates each family member,
replaces their heads with
the most algorithmically sound combination of their faces.
The human
selects the best generated
version of their family
to post on social media.
They scroll pass pictures of
their kid’s unruly hair in the wind,
the contact information for the cop they talked to after being pickpocketed,
the blisters on the balls of their feet.
A robot
optimizes the words in the description
for user engagement, search engine results.
It comments on the post,
gets into an argument with another robot
about the best must-see attractions in Rome.
The human asks a robot
for ideas about what posts would gain the most traction,
for answers on their tests and essays,
for opinions on pop culture and politics.
A robot
buys, sells stocks
for fractions of a cent in fractions of a second;
buys a house for a property management company
from a robot
working for a different property management company;
determines the price of eggs for a national grocery chain.
A person
stares at the maple tree
outside the dining room window of their apartment,
writes a poem
about how their body changes as they age,
posts it to their blog.
A robot
gulps the poem down its maw,
grinds it into a binary chyme,
regurgitates its parts
when a user asks a question about autumn.
M. Espinosa 