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
Tag: poem
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.
morning routine
you lock the door at least you’re pretty sure you check and the door is indeed locked you pat your pockets to count your keys your phone your wallet but did you lock the door you go back and check and it’s locked you walk to the car and tap your pockets again you can’t remember locking the door you think about object permance as you reassure yourself the door is locked by turning the knob and pushing it three times you make it to the car and use your key to start it lay your phone and wallet in the empty space by the gearshift you tap all three as you pull out of your driveway then again as you turn out of the apartment complex to drive to work you’re pretty sure you locked the door
a calm shadow
theater marquee an early ben gibbard haircut black thick-rimmed glasses a scar with a delicate history under layers of concealer and foundation shirt with an obscure band’s logo an unbuttoned flannel red and white a heart with a brisk pace cuffs just below their elbows gnarled dandelion stem between their fingers denim jeans blue as summer sky manufactured rips on their knees authentic wear behind their ankles adidas the nice ones green and gold a bouncy toe within a calm shadow
M. Espinosa 