shoes by the door walk on the balls of your feet like a cartoon burglar finish your morning coffee wash the mug in the sink before they wake up leave everything where you find it no trace of your existence fade into the background so no one misses you when you’re gone sit at the dinner table quiet as snowfall in twilight it’s your house but it doesn’t feel that way
Tag: Poetry
not a soul on the lake
sunday afternoon late spring a cloudless sky not a soul on the lake dozens of houses with windows for walls uniform lawns not a soul on the lake seven foam swans in the water three coyote statues on private docks two wooden owls and a metal heron in a garden not a soul on the lake fifty kayaks asleep in yards thirty motorboats under canopies two seaplanes with eye masks on not a soul on the lake
Protect the Farm
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from May, 2023.
I. palabra, n.
What’s the word Dad told me for when the sky looks like spilled paint? Maybe the answer is behind that column of smoke billowing from the silo.
II. folder, v.
I launch myself, above the wheat. Stalks topple in my wake. Serena is at the base of the silo, a torrent of water erupting from the jewel on top of her staff. Right. A water spell. That’s what the word dad said was for. I wobble as I land, prepare the spell.
III. groundhog day, n.
“My God, Finch,” Serena yells over her shoulder. “Any time now would be nice.” Awkward syllables leave my throat, water shoots from my palm. The charred silo glistens in the moonlight once we've extinguished the final ember. “Every day,” Serena sighs, “you’re running behind, forgetting spells. “I love you, etc., but you need to get your shit together. It’s getting harder to rely on you.” I fidget with my wand, not meeting her eyes, because I know she’s right.
IV. bub, n.
When I was young, I dreamed of protecting the farm. I never had Serena’s patience for growing crops, reading books. Could never sit still. Had to move. Had to run. I needed the wind in my hair. I could perform spells, but not study them. I needed to see them done first. Dad understood. He taught by example. He helped me become the best flyer around.
V. misocapnist, n.
I take out a cigarette at the end of our watch as the sun rises over the ridge. I take a drag, lean against the door of stable. Horses stir, ready to run. Serena shakes her head, steps away to sit on the tailgate of an old pickup. She coughs. “I wish you’d wait until I left to do that. You know it bothers me. “I think we should eat something, then go back to investigate the silo. How does that sound?” My eyes are heavy, my fingers twitch. I nod.
VI. half groat, n.
Breakfast is small: coffee, black; toast, black. Serena tells me about the latest book she read as we walk back to the silo. I play with a coin, flipping it between my fingers, to stay focused.
VII. bonhomous, adj.
“Oh,” Serena says, “sorry, Finch. This must be so boring for you.” I pocket the coin. “No, it’s okay. I like hearing what you’re excited about.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re sure? It’s just a poet’s memoir about her divorce.” “I’d rather listen to your TED Talk than try to read a book, so yeah.” “Oh shut the fuck up,” she laughs, shoves my shoulder, then returns to her book commentary.
VIII. bloco, n.
Serena is talking about her girlfriend's drum practice when we return to the silo. Charred chunks sizzle in the morning sun with an intricate rhythm. Serena rotates her wrist; purple mist flows from her fingers to the pieces of silo shell. "This should help identify the fire's epicenter and whether a spell was used.”
IX. char kway teow, n.
Purple tendrils spread from chunks on the ground, reach toward the silo’s missing torso. Chunks and swirls indigo and navy highlight on the body. “There’s magic there,” Serena says. She looks at me, smiles. “Let me guess. “You want to see me do it again?” I look between her and the silo, move my wrist. “Please.”
X. kalian, n.
She said the words for the spell slowly— awkward, archaic syllables. I say them back to her, rotate my wrist the way she did, and violet strings unravel from the spaces between my fingers. They reach toward the silo, but fall short. “Hell yeah, Finch! That’s a good start! Let’s get closer to the source up there. “Since my spell gave us an epicenter, yours, up close, should be able to discern the type of spell.” I nod, float up the side of the burnt silo. “Discern? Really?” I perform the spell again. “Fuck you. Read a book.” Serena’s laugh stops abruptly as her spell’s effects turned grey. A vision appeared— a tube, water, so much smoke.
XI. anti-huff, n.
“A hose? And water?” I tilt my head. “Like a fireman?” “Jesus. It’s 2023.” She facepalms. “Firefighter. “Also no. It’s a device that controls the fire, prevents it from spreading.” “So, they targeted our silo specifically. Not even the whole farm. But, why?”
XII. feechie, adj.
Lightning crashes, dark clouds roll in as we approach the ground. “Could be real,” Serena points her chin at the clouds. “Could be a cover. “They attacked our grain, our main food source. They must want to get to Dad.”
XIII. sodom apple, n.
Fields look different on the way back— the hue’s not right, like an Instagram filter. Dad’s voice is ablaze once we arrive in the dining room; his open palm full of ash.
XIV. waygate, n.
Dad paces the hallway as mom reaches for an apple from the basket on the table. It turns to ash in her hand as Serena and I tell them about what we found at the silo. Their worry is palpable; it takes up all the oxygen in the house. Dad protests when I say I’m going to find the person who did this. Mom jolts to her feet, her chair groans against the floor, when Serena says she’s going too.
XV. washikong, n.
Mom lectures about the dangers of traveling as I tie my shoes. I repeat our contingency plans to Dad like a student cramming for an exam as I pack my backpack. Serena and I say goodbye, fly across the farm toward the city.
XVI. barber’s block, n.
At the edge of town is a strip mall and between a Great Clips and a Wild Birds Unlimited, there’s a cracked gutter, and when you peel it back, a doorway appears. That’s where the alchemist works.
XVII. buildering, n.
The alchemist’s shop is at the roof of a building hidden in the gutter alley. For protection (or just to be a dick), there are no stairs, no door from inside. His magic affects gravity, makes flying too difficult. We have to climb the exterior— fingertips on brick edges, toes on windowsills.
XVIII. toyo, n.
The alchemist sits behind his desk, a bowl of fried rice in one hand, a half-full bottle of soy sauce in the other. He nods at us in the doorway, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, waves us forward.
XIX. geeksville, n.
We tell the alchemist about the silo. He and Serena click instantly— fucking nerds. He has many clarifying questions; Serena answers with many big words. I run my fingertips over the labels of potion bottles he has on display. He snaps his fingers, flips through pages of a floating, translucent spellbook.
XX. ohana, n.
The alchemist rubs his chin. “Looks to be the work of a sorcerer much too dangerous for you kids.” I slam my hands on the counter. “It’s our family. They have no food. We have to fix it. “Do you know who did it? Or have something to stop the rot? Or do we need to find someone else?”
XXI. cabinet particulier, n.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. “Fine. It looks like the handiwork of Rauldor. “He’s a restaurateur whose latest pop-up seeks to redefine French cuisine. “My guess is your father refused his offer, and this is retribution. “I’ll arrange a reservation for you, so you can get some intel.” A pause. “Do you have… formal wear?”
XXII. adumbrant, adj.
Ties are so uncomfortable. Whoever decided men needed to be strangled to show formality has never had to work with their hands. Rauldor’s pop-up is in the shadow of the movie theatre’s spire. The entrance moves down the street throughout the evening, disappears at dusk.
XXIII. zelotypia, n.
Rauldor has a vibe which escapes words— but it’s in his eyes. There’s a constant sense of calculation, comparison in the twitch of his pupils. He walks between tables, eyes and rotates flower vases, adjusts the knot of his tie.
XXIV. noctilucent, adj.
Serena casts spells subtly under her menu as we wait for bread— bread, apparently, from grain we grew at home. She says there’s so much ambient magic in the air, she won’t be noticed. I twirl my fork, watch the waitstaff walk into and out of the kitchen. Rauldor’s hair, a storm cloud always visible across the dim dining area.
XXV. broad acres, n.
This fucking guy. As Rauldor makes his rounds, he talks to each table about his fresh ingredients, his gourmet cooking, his influences from his travels. Insufferable. Serena uses a spell to tip over a platter as a diversion. I turn to shadow, roll along the baseboard toward his office.
XXVI. milver, n.
I move around the kitchen— smoke from the grill, boiling water for pasta, so many tubes bringing water in, sucking up smoke. Serena said Rauldor would probably have something— a ring, gem, or scroll— to undo the curse once our father caved to his demands. Once through the gap between the floor and the office door, I see a banner above his computer which reads: “‘Your focus determines your reality.’ — Qui-Gon Jinn.” Dad has the same quote, the same banner, in his office at home.
XXVII. paanwallah, n.
I reach toward the banner slow as the summer sun, lift the pushpin in the corner. Focused, measured, cannot make a sound. There’s a picture behind the banner. Rauldor, youthful, a Culinary Institute hoodie, and my dad in his UC Davis shirt. Its corner bent, taped down hurriedly. I peel the tape gently, carefully, find a hole in the drywall with a raindrop-shaped gem on the end of a chain. It’s cold in the palm of my hand as I scoop it up, but then a ripple of heat emanates from the hole. An alarm. Duh. I quickly tape the picture down, replace the banner, slip back into the shadow.
XXVIII. wayfere, n.
Rauldor’s French (I assume) booms through the kitchen as I slink to the bathroom. I emerge in an empty stall, wash my hands, head back to our table. I ask about the commotion, pat my breast pocket, say I’m too full for dessert. Serena says a waiter tripped, the check’s taken care of, we’re good to go. I feel like an alien performing a human impression as we walk out of the restaurant. A man, outside, says we’re dressed awfully fancy to see the Super Mario movie. We laugh hard, whether to his joke or out of relief, I don’t know. Around the corner, we try to fly home. While Serena is successful, I remain planted to the ground. The gem, she says, must have some strange gravitational pull, so we begin walking home instead. Serena asked what really happened, once at a safe distance, then lists the shenanigans she pulled to buy me time. The city’s not so bad— streetlights, the moon light our way home.
XIX. ombrology, n.
The gem throbs against my chest as we approach the edge of our farm, the silo’s skeleton in the light of dawn. Something tells me— a wordless radiation— I have to crush the gem. Serena stops when I walk toward the silo. She yells when I take out the gem. She takes off when my fist consumes it and I pour its dust into the ashes. The sky becomes white, the air becomes cool, and Serena tackles me. She yells and cries, bangs her fist on my chest. Hopelessness consumes her eyes. Then rain begins to fall. Rain falls and the fields turn green.
XXX. gordon bennett, int.
Serena laughs, struggles to breathe, falls back into the grass arms wide. The rain’s cool on my face. From the ground, I see beams reposition themselves into a silo. When we get up, we realize our clothes— the alchemist’s formal wear— are covered in mud. The walk back to the house is slow. The rain feels right, new. Our house even looks brighter. Mom and Dad are double-fisting apples while two steaks cook on the grill. They stop when they see us, cheer, lift and spin us around in celebration, then eat their steaks off the grill with their hands. They hadn’t eaten all day, Mom says. Afraid to destroy what they had left. The rain told them something was fixed.
XXXI. blood and thunder, n.
Around the third knife fight, Dad starts to doubt my story. Worse, Serena doesn’t even back my up. She tells them the truth, even though our parents’s unfounded fear of the city is hilarious. When explaining how I got the gem, I hesitate mentioning the picture; it feels too private, something I shouldn’t know. But, Serena operates on a whole-truth principle, so I bring it up. Dad’s quiet, makes a face that looks like he has to chew his thoughts into words. “We were friends in college, yes,” he says, ‘but Rauldor’s changed a lot since then. You’ve done enough, Finch. “You’ve served your family well. Thank you. Let me take care of the rest."
Up here, it’s a haunted house
“‘… up here’ –she gestured to her head– ‘it’s a haunted house.’” – Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.
We flew across the country to bury your ashes by your eldest daughter's plot. There was a barbecue in your niece's backyard that week, where your extended family — our extended family, I guess — gathered to see each other and share their memories of you. It was a sunny day, mid-July; I was exhausted. I took a nap on a loveseat in the empty living room. Like you had done during family gatherings when you were alive. Water is boiling in an electric kettle on top of a file cabinet behind my desk. I pour it into a mug covered with titles of commonly banned books. I dig a teabag out of the drawer of the cabinet I emptied of files and filled with tea, coffee grounds, and snacks. I dunk the teabag in the water, watch the brown cloud stretch, grow. Steam sways like a wind chime's mallet in an autumnal flurry. Every few minutes, you remind me to take a sip, so I don't have to microwave it like you needed to near the end. When I was in elementary school, I walked to your house when the school day ended. It was a cold, dark winter. I watched cartoons while working on math homework — simple multiplication, I think. You made me hot cocoa by microwaving a mug of milk, squirting in chocolate syrup, and twirling whipped cream on top. Did you add a cherry? Did you keep a jar of maraschino cherries in your fridge? I don't remember. One of my students asks me to see their choir concert. I put it in my calendar to make sure I can attend. I arrive early, park in the same spot I left two hours earlier. I sit in the room where students ate lunch six hours earlier. They have a solo during the final song. My heart is full, my eyes teary. This must be a fraction of what you felt during my concerts. You tell me to help put chairs away when the concert ends. I tell them how proud I am of them and their performance. They introduce me to their family. You tell me how proud you are of me as I drive home. It was spring. My mother, your younger daughter, buried some of your ashes along the edge of her yard which overlooks a small creek (which exists when it rains for a day or two). You are split between two sides of a continent; flowers bloom around your name every year.
a test proctor
silence thirty students and laptops along the room's perimeter a pile of backpacks between the door and a bookcase fingers on keyboards like rain on a sidewalk warm, stagnant air of early afternoon five heads on desks between hoods and forearms cold coffee in a thrift-store mug by the keyboard on your desk a pencil eraser on a desk 120 beats per minute a whisper a nod silence
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 starving to death,
because I forgot 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 as 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
around 3 am.
You are cold
and still.
I hyperventilate through
our address with a dispatcher.
XXV. ombré, n.
I watch the sunrise
through the 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.
A Logical Conclusion of Hypochondria
Floaters crawl across an overcast sky. Maybe your retinas are about to detach. One day, you won’t be able to see anyway. A cramp in your calf wakes you in the middle of the night. Feels like a mountain lion’s teeth ripping meat from bone. One day, you won’t be able to walk anyway. Hollowness erupts in your wrist halfway through typing an email. You bend and stretch to fill the void. One day, you won’t be able to type anyway. A feeling in your chest like an icepick in your heart. Each breath hurts. Is it your heart? Your lungs? One day, you won’t be able to breathe anyway. You can’t remember the word that describes this feeling. It’s behind a fog rolling over a harbor. One day, you won’t be able to remember anyway.
every tree on the coast
every tree on the coast leans inland, stretches their branches toward the hills away from shore. what do they know?
On a Beach in Astronomical Twilight
It's just so improbable, you know? Those stars are thousands of lightyears away. That would mean these photons flew here, voyagers, trillions of miles, from a home they'll never return to, and nothing got in their way. They didn't stop at another planet, get eaten by another star, collide with an asteroid, or freeze in a comet's tail. These photons sailed right here, into our eyes, uninterrupted for millennia. Light bent in the right way for us to see remnants of an ancestor whose name is probably a series of numbers in a spreadsheet. And, we get to see these photons, but not the ones who arrive later or earlier, not the ones caught by an overcast sky. We only see the ones who flew from those stars to this specific spot, as our planet corkscrews around a different star whose eye is currently caught mid-blink. It's infinitesimal, these odds; these stars, their light, and us, lying on a beach in astronomical twilight.
i feel like a ghost town.
i feel like a ghost town. empty buildings with shuttered windows around a patchy courtyard. no wind, no rain, nothing here anymore.
M. Espinosa 