Tag: literature

This Is My Chance

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2024.

I. speccy, n.

No one will get in my way.
Not Donna. Not Hafsa.
Not Jayden. No one.

I will run this company.
I’ll wear the symbolic lapel pins
at press conferences.

My Wikipedia page will be
hastily reedited every hour
by my legion of devoted followers.

Society is built by the strong,
like me. No use looking
at the bodies in my wake.

II. slangster, n.

No one knows
the heights
of my ambition.

I code-switch
by Hafsas’s cubicle, 
wear a friendly face.

A different mask
for every person, keep them all
in my back pocket.

Wear whatever pantsuit or dress
is required to curry the favor
of the lechers in charge.

III. talkation, n.

It’s exhausting,
really,
all the small talk.

It’s all so slow,
meandering,
repetitive.

But you have to do it
or they label you
a loner.

No one promotes
the standoffish person—
productivity be damned.

IV. rutilate, v.

Swoop in when
someone has a sick day,
say I got them covered.

Complete their work 
just slightly under par
in their name.

Complete my work
with extra vigor, precision,
the same day.

Make
sure
I shine.

V. disco nap, n.

There’s no time
to rest, no time
to sleep.

This speech won’t
revise itself; it needs
to plant the seed

that I should be
Miguel’s replacement.
His retirement banquet, 

the perfect opportunity to show
warmth, respect, honor, responsibility —
my best human masks.

VI. psychomancy, n.

They don’t need
this promotion
as much as I do.

Their families had food,
had school,
had connections to power.

I hear my grandma’s voice—
the fancy-people one—
come out of my mouth

during the closing of this speech,
as Miguel and Thomas
smile and nod in my direction.

VII. kintsugi, n.

The office isn’t the same
after someone leaves,
even if it’s a retirement.

You discover the tasks
they did
that no one acknowledged.

You need to be the glue
that holds the office
together,

and you need to make sure
they know
it’s you.

VIII. motorkhana, n.

You have to show
ambition, but not show
that you want it.

I need to cover my job
and some of Miguel’s vacuum,
but only enough

for Thomas to notice
how much more I do 
than Donna.

Can’t break a sweat,
can’t tense an eyebrow—
a skyscraper in a hurricane.

IX. mossify, v.

Steal resources,
drink their water.
Thrive.

Take the spotlight,
the attention, the applause.
Thrive.

Bask in sunlight,
stretch your back.
Thrive.

Live as
they fade away.
Thrive.

X. short sauce, n.

During the interview,
I talk about
my grandmother,

specifically,
helping her
in her garden,

filling a basket

with potatoes and onions,
helping cook dinner.

That should appeal
to whatever hearts they have.
I’m a shoo-in.

XI. garbage time, n.

Act humble
when they ask how
the interview went.

Act surprised
when the announcement
is made.

Act gracious
when they offer their
vapid congratulations.

Act congenial
when they describe their visions
for the future of the company.

XII. filly-folly, n.

Donna actually thought
she might have
gotten the job.

I pretend
I appreciate her
constant, inane bullshit.

Jayden believes they’re
in the inner circle,
my number two.

Placating these babies
takes so much 
of my valuable time.

XIII. dim sim, n.

The branch needs to run
efficiently, effectively,
to make me look good.

All parts must work together;
each person’s strength
must compliment the others.

The manager’s job
is so increase profit
by whatever means possible.

Modifying how
data is crunched
doesn’t hurt either.

XIV. legiferous, adj.

I rule the day-to-day
of every person
in this building.

My word directs
time, energy, resources
to complete 

whatever tedious minutia
increases the company stock
by a fraction of a cent.

But, my actions are
still dictated by some asshole
I’ve never met.

XV. bahama grass, n.

Not good enough. I thought
this promotion would fill the void, 
but it’s simply

not good enough. I need
to aim higher, climb the ladder—
more money, more power, more.

I’ll bury them, work them
to the ground, claim all their ideas,
accomplishments, as my own.

I’ll bury them, invade their circles,

their excluding group chats,
bring every one of them down.

XVI. pollyanna, n.

Choosing a gambit
is the hardest step.
So many possibilities,

branching paths. But,
once a decision’s made, it’s
a simple transverse wave.

It comes to me
like the line that follows
an hours-long earworm.

Our company’s never had
a woman as CEO.
This is my chance.

XVII. kund, n.

The outrage machine
has been refined by
the algorithm;

I just need
to utilize the tools
efficiently.

A hashtag here, a blogpost
there, a TikTok reposted
to Reels and YouTube Shorts.

Tears of frustration
will chip away the barricade
around the castle.

XVIII. pauciloquent, adj.

Alt accounts allow me
to amplify the outrage
without any of its slander

tracing back to me.
It’s important,
you must agree:

a thoughtful leader
does not let
the squabbles of social media

cloud her judgement,
interfere with her business,
distract her from her goals.

XIX. monstriferous, adj.

Publicly toeing
the company line
affords certain privileges.

Namely, when
the frenzied mob
arrives at the doorstep
 
of the national headquarters,
executives can no longer
feign ignorance.

Thus, they reach out
to me
to draft a statement.

XX. mundungus, n.

Executives
must believe they are
immortal.

After an hour,
I open the window—
fresh air.

Constant fiddling
with cigarettes, vapes,
between

their fingers and their lips.
They say it helps
them think.

XXI. dumbfoundment, n.

Somehow,
they are shocked
a statement

isn’t enough.
They thought a jpeg
would satiate

the feedback loop.
When calls for further changes
fill the replies,

they scan the directory
and the only woman in management
is me.

XXII. chinchery, n.

Pinch
a penny
here.

Make the
more experienced, more expensive
guy resign.

Save
a dollar
there.

Avoid
training costs by
hiring in-house.

XXIII. fugazi, adj. and n.

Keep moving,
so they can’t see the seam
of my human mask.

A pensive nod is
enough, enough
for solidarity.

They can believe
we are
the same.

They can believe
I’m in this
for the collective.

XXIV. daladala, n.

They hold
an actual press conference
to announce my promotion.

I’m
not just a jpeg,
not a pre-recorded video.

I get cameras, microphones,
annoying questions
from annoying journalists.

I will carry
these inept fools
on my back.

XXV. stephanian, adj.

My office is larger
than my first apartment, which I split
with three other girls in college.

It comes with an assistant
with a name
not worth remembering.

He manages my
calendar, filters
my messages.

I could spend full days
staring out my window,
talking to no one.

XXVI. fairy gold, n.

A signing bonus,
stock options,
a healthy raise.

This was the goal.
I saw it
in my dreams.

I have the power,
the money,
the peons below me.

Why am I still
empty? What will satiate
this void?

XXVII. eye-rhyme, n.

Through amalgamation,
blend in with their
stoic faces, dark suits.

Though we look similar,
I can tell
we move at different tempos.

Tough facades
over
fragile egos.

Enough phonies
to make
you puke.

XXVIII. catfish, v.

To placate Donna,
I promoted her
to manage our IT department.

It seemed a way of
giving her toothless power,
giving me progressive optics.

That was my error.
She wanted to make
a name for herself.

She opened an investigation
into the scandal’s origins.
She found my IP address.

XXIX. sorry, v.

The memos fly fast—
around me, over me,
before finally reaching me.

I learn of it
in the boardroom,
an emergency meeting.

I sit in a pool of static
as whatshisname leads Jayden
into my office.

I hate the look
on their face—
pity, disappointment.

XXX. make-a-do, n.

Waves of sound
slam into me at once
like a sonic boom—

executives in the boardroom
detailing
every breadcrumb I left,

Jayden’s unearned outrage
at my lofty ambitions
and distasteful tactics,

my barbaric yawp
into the empty space
below my desk.

XXXI. summer blink, n.

The job is gone;
my reputation trashed;
my mentions, the poison garden in Alnwick.

I avoid screens
as much as I can
to quiet my brain.

At least
there’s my severance pay
in the bank,

the upturn
in the company stock
after my exit.

your ashes

your ashes
inside a plastic bag in a cardboard box

on a shelf toward the back of the garage
behind their back-up tent

a long wait
for the death of a man

with no memory of you
a small ceremony

a distribution
of his ashes and yours

among the rocks and roots around colchuck lake
your request

i was here

hello. this is your house; i’m aware.
i don’t know how to say this kindly, but

i was here
before you.

i was here
before that blonde house-flipper in the flannel made cheap renovations to the facade.
i was here
before the previous family fell into addiction and the house fell into squalor.
i was here
before the men in hard hats put together the 'good bones' the realtor told you about.
i was here
before ox hooves and wagon wheels left tracks in my mud.
i was here
before the first humans foraged for huckleberries and hunted deer in my foliage.

i was here
first.

i will continue to be here
after i’m done with you.

In the Foyer

There we were
in the foyer
fussing with backpacks, tying shoes,
unsure
what the world had planned
for those we love.

out of the office

out of the office
only three cars in the parking lot

first sunlight of spring 
warm on your face

birdsong ahead of you
in the trees beyond the curb

birdsong behind you
under the bleachers by the soccer field

birdsong alongside you
within the sparse bushes of the planter

tears in your eyes

In Another Man’s Mirror

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2024.

I. quaaltagh, n.

An empty theatre,
lights still up,
blank screen.

People come in, think
they’re in the wrong room.
It’s nice

to watch them figure it out,
to hear their conversation,
to see if they notice me.

II. cineliterate, adj.

Twenty-four pictures
across the screen
fill your eyes
each second.

Horns and strings
from an orchestra
outside time and space
fills your ears.

You leave your body,
a metaphysical observer
of human behavior,
their ethos and pathos—

until the person behind you coughs.

III. alethiology, n.

I know
this shouldn’t bother me so much,
but I cannot help it.

Escaping this plane,
this strung-up meat bag,
is so nice.

I feel it all
come crashing down on me
instantly.

IV. puffinry, n.

Sit through all the credits,
drive home.

A house that feels
surrounded
by rough rock walls,
cold salt water.

No one ever comes here,
but me.

V. bobol, n.

From the couch, 
framed pictures on the wall
seem to tell the story

of a family
which feels more fictional
every day.

VI. hobson’s choice, n.

He used to say, “Six of one,
half a dozen of the other.”

I had never heard that sentence
before the night we had to choose

between moving into a shitty apartment
or living with my grieving mother.

That felt like the hardest decision
I’d ever have to make,

before our love evaporated
like unattended pasta water,

before I found his ring on my finger
reflected in another man’s mirror.

VII. poncif, n.

We all imagine
we’re the main character
of the movie.

How devastating
to find your story is
derivative drivel 

that gets panned by critics,
that bombs at the box office,
that teenagers call “mid.”

VIII. contrarian, n.

On the bookshelf,
by the Lego Space Needle,

there’s a selfie of us
posing at Pike Place Market.

His grin’s wide; his left arm
hugs my face into his shoulder.

I doubt
he was ever really that happy.

I doubt
he meant any of it.

IX. couscoussier, n.

I wanted
to be wanted.

I wanted
to feel something.

I didn’t think
about what it meant.

I didn’t think
about the future.

X. nidification, n.

When it’s time for bed, I

rearrange the three blankets
strewn over the couch,

empty my glass of water
into the pot of a plant he left,

load the dishwasher with
three days worth of plates,

cross off the day’s square
on the Van Gogh calendar he bought,

mentally prepare for another day.

XI. jingo-ring, n.

Everything is weightless
when I’m asleep.

Colors are bright,
my skin warm,

like the universe
is hugging me,

like the universe
understands me—

maybe, even,
forgives me.

XII. grá, n.

I keep making
too much coffee
in the morning.

I keep opening
my phone after
arriving at work.

I keep looking
at the last
message he sent.

XIII. natak, n.

He’s an actor.
We met in college
when he was the lead

in a queer retelling of 
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
I was a history major

with a friend
in the costume department
who invited me to an after party.

Our hands bumped, reaching
for a slice of Hawaiian pizza.
I was enamored.

XIV. peneroso, n.

The barista asks
how I’m doing.
Their brow pinched
as they place
my chai latte
on the counter.

Dominique says I
look like shit.
“More then usual,”
she adds as
my backpack lands
on my desk.

XV. blue monday, n.

You know how someone
can say something and
it nudges all your tectonic pates?

I tell her she’s right;
I shouldn’t be working today,
and leave with no further explanation.

XVI. prince, v.

It’s unfair, the way
hot people are treated,
how people fall over themselves
to get the smallest interaction.

You don’t mind much
when you’re his boyfriend
and get the runoff.

You do mind when he’s gone,
though, and people ignore you
like the human garbage
you know you are.

XVII. figury, adj.

Back home, I wrap myself
in my tortilla blanket.

I make the mistake
of opening his Instagram page.

XVIII. bitter end, n.

His last post is
from the night I told him.

A familiar streetlamp
under a cloudy moon

outside the bookshop
near the mall.

The caption:
the chorus from “Mister Cellophane.”

XIX. gumboot dance, n.

Guilt claws at my ribs
like bald eagle talons.

Each heart beat,
a seismic event.

My teeth chatter loud
as an open palm on rubber.

My thumb hovers
over the message button.

XX. ripicolous, adj.

I’m torn between two lives,
two branches of potential futures.

One in which I apologize
and maybe he hears me
and maybe we can be together again.

Another in which I atone
for my mistakes, give him space,
and maybe I grow on my own.

But, that’s really only two possibilities
of an infinite set with endless variables.

XXI. piranesian, adj.

Without you,
I feel like

all the color has been sapped
from the world, like

I am on the floor of a cavern and
sunlight is so far away, like

life is a staircase
I’ll never reach the top of.

XXII. nobody-crab, n.

My fingers typed
the letters of the words

without my mind’s consent.
My mind and I tell them

to delete the block of text,
but my thumb,

instead, dashes to
the paper airplane.

XXIII. frontenis, n.

I lose my grip; my phone clatters
against the coffee table

loud as my heart
in my throat,

loud as a rubber ball
slamming against a concrete wall.

XXIV. bermudian english, adj.

When I look at the ceiling,
I see shapes in the shadows.

It’s odd, you know,
how people change you.

You become a mixture
of past-you and them.

Who am I now that
I’m missing part of myself?

XXV. hawker centre, n.

My phone dings,
but I can’t look at it.

I leave it in the living room,
walk around the block.

There’s a circle of food trucks
in the parking lot

of the city park behind Walmart.
I get some chicken satay,

eat it on a bench by the geese
swimming through duckweed.

XXVI. noodgy, adj.

There’s no reason
to put it off anymore.

Clouds roll in, droplets dance
across the lake surface.

I need to go back.
I need to see what he said.

XXVII. mawworm, n.

I’m fine.
I’m normal.

It’s just a message.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.

I don’t have to tie my worth
to whatever it says.

I’ll just read it, process it, and
respond to it like a normal person would.

XXVIII. lardy-dardy, adj.

I walk by the neighborhood
with well-manicured lawns,

two cars in each driveway,
curtains pulled from their windows

to show their dining rooms,
happy families eating together.

XXIX. sectator, n.

My phone lay face down,
alone, on the coffee table.

The only notification
on my home screen is from

YouTube, saying tonight’s
A Closer Look just got uploaded.

Nothing moves in the house;
nothing makes a sound.

XXX. pushmobile, n.

The logical part of me
knows to leave it all alone,

watch a movie, escape
this timeline for a while.

"But. But,"
the other part says,

"what if it never sent?
What if you missed a critical typo?"

I find the message.
He left me on Seen.

XXXI. pettibockers, n.

I am small,
thin as silk.

Exposed, vulnerale,
a rabbit in a meadow.

I almost wish a hawk
would just fall from the sky

and end
this nightmare.

i keep seeing you die before i wake up


you lie in a hospital bed
eyes behind a curtain i can’t touch
you look at me
ask who i am 
and a light goes out

we’re at home
around midnight
a single lamp on in the bedroom
on your nightstand
comforter around your neck
eyes closed
you breathe deep
your exhale never ends
your chest caves in
like canyon walls

we’re driving to a concert downtown
you’re at the wheel
merging left to get off on seneca
a mustang goes 20 over
doesn’t see us
clips our left bumper
and your side swings into
the bottom of a semi

we’re eating potato salad
at a picnic table in a city park
by the house your parents moved out of 15 years ago
we’re arguing
but i don’t really know what about
you throw your spoon at my face
storm off
disappear in the parking lot

a different timeline
where we never met
but i see you giving a speech
on the evening news
your name flashes on the chyron
something draws my eyes to it
and i look up
in time
to see a bullet enter your chest

we’re on a hike
along the coast
wading through wet sand, uneven boulders
you say you need a break
sweat coats your forehead
you become pale
chug from your nalgene
the one covered in ferret stickers
you suddenly turn over and vomit
keep vomiting
until you fall over completely
i turn you over, find the sos button
hanging from your shoulder strap
i check your airway and your pulse

you’re at work
busy
i text you to let you know i made it home
but you don’t respond
you’re busy
the weather report on tv is interrupted
by the news
of a bombing downtown
where you work

you smile at me
blood seeps through the gaps
between your teeth
blood drips down your chin
you say it’s okay

Another dead child

You scroll through Instagram
during your mid-shift break.

A capybara balances an orange on its head,
neck-deep in a hot spring.
A toddler’s speech impediment accidentally
makes them say curse words to their mother.
A nonprofit repurposes a dead meme
to ask for donations.
A dead child, one leg missing,
lays in a bloody hospital bed.

You close the app,
open TikTok instead.

A teacher records herself collecting
rent from her students in their classroom currency.
A polar bear breaks open a pumpkin
using CPR-like compressions.
A painting comes into being
one smooth stroke at a time.
Another dead child, three holes in their chest,
lays in a high school parking lot.

You close the app,
check Twitter.

A selfie of someone you know from college
cosplaying as Captain Olimar at a convention.
A screenshot of an obscure Wikipedia page
about maps which omit New Zealand.
A thread about the lack of disability representation
in Disney animated movies.
Another dead child, flies around thier open mouth,
lays in a patch of dirt.

You close the app,
desparately open YouTube Shorts.

A speedrunner discovers a glitch
which warps them to the Ganon fight in Ocarina of Time.
A man explains the origins
of the 9-to-5 workday.
A woman covers “Hedwig’s Theme”
on a hammered dulcimer.
Another dead child, eyes wide,
lays in the basement of Netflix’s next murder show subject.

You put your phone back in your locker,
head back out to the sales floor.

If you exist

If you exist in this reality —
the one we all share — then
what is the cleat hitch
keeping you here?

They say you’re not your body.
Your body, just a vessel for your soul
or consciousness or mind, whatever.
Descartes’s whole thing stemmed
from being able to imagine himself as something else,
and you can too — yourself as
a stellar’s jay knocking seeds all over a porch,
a black bear lumbering over a log post-torpor —
your consciousness still there.
If you lose your foot, you may be
less of a body, but not less of a person.

They say you’re not your thoughts.
The echoes you hear are from someone else
who has no body (probably), lives somewhere
you cannot see, don’t have a name for.
Or, they’re just electric impulses, chemical reactions
from organs you don’t even control —
your body can’t trust you with them.
Sometimes, when you drive to work,
fold laundry, your mind leaves you anyway.
You can’t leave yourself; you’re stuck with yourself
until the battery runs out.

If you exist at all, maybe
you’re just a shadow in the fluid
around a ball of electric meat
inside a collagen cage.

it’s a new year

it’s a new year.
a wet rain fly hangs
over your shower rod.

look over three stacks of unread books.
out your window, rain falls
through steam ascending from
the open mouth of your complex’s hot tub.

ripples jump around the puddle
on the caving pool cover
like the dots on listen to wikipedia
after another gazan hospital bombing.

water drips
from a rudolph nose on your neighbor’s altima,
from the lip of a pot of dead bell peppers,
along the rust marks on the community barbecue.

above the trees,
the sky is a blank sheet of paper
staring back at you.