A stop before a three-hour drive home. A subject I, at fourteen, avoided. A hospital. I walked in last, stared at the tiles on the floor until I was nudged to say hello. When I looked up, I saw him. A gown. Wires. Tubes. Shadows from an overhead light. My mind saw him die and I cried. No words. He frowned — scowled, maybe. “Get out of here with that!” he yelled. I remember him raising his arm up to shoo me away. My mom gave me the keys to her Expedition. I sat there trying to find air. When she joined me, she asked, “Why were you crying?” My thoughts intercepted by arguments and counterarguments shouted across a crowded conference hall. Reverberating echoes off a tall ceiling. No words. I leaned my head on the window away from her, watched the world blur.
Tag: Poetry
Whatever Home Is
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from December, 2021.
I. flatshare, v.
Someone always there to take care of the dishes. Someone always there to sign for packages. Someone always there to watch for red Corollas.
II. amirite, int.
They walk up behind me as I watch the traffic two floors below— green Forester. A hand on my shoulder, they sit on one of the throw pillows we scattered on the floor in front of the sliding glass door to the porch— blue Civic. They flick their wrist toward the street, say, “Next summer blockbuster!” Met with silence — yellow Mustang.
III. infodemic, n.
It takes time to sift through it all — the humans on the sidewalk, the song of warblers by the window feeder, the caws of crows by the garbage cans, the whistle of their tea kettle boiling, the glare of the sun in the glass door — in order to focus on the cars in the street.
IV. amscray, v.
Early evening, a familiar shape of headlights come round the corner. They slow by our building, connected to a body the shade of dried blood. I spin so quick, the pillow slides out from under me across the fake-wood floor, and I have to scramble to my feet, dash through the apartment to the bedroom closet, slam the door shut. A suitcase’s coarse fabric rubs my temple.
V. bardo, n.
No light. Three thumps. A click. A squeaky hinge. Muffled voices. Silence. A suitcase’s zipper in my fingers. Footsteps in the hallways. A gulp.
VI. fastballer, n.
Everything happens in the blink of an eye. The closet door opens, my arm is pulled, the suitcase is packed, and I am planted in the backseat of the car staring out the window as the curb flows by me like the water of a river.
VII. phantastikon, n.
A man runs along the curb, jumps over hydrants, swings under streetlights, grinds along benches. He speeds up, slows down in tandem with the car.
VIII. Fast-medium, adj. and n.
I’m put in a chair in front of a large desk covered in loose papers, sloppy folders. A person in a wrinkled suit sits behind it, says their name, quickly asks a bunch of questions, checking boxes on a piece of paper hidden by a beat-up clipboard.
IX. amatorio, n.
On the person’s desk is a small tray, no bigger than a side dish, which has a couple stress balls in it. After several questions I don’t answer, they offer a ball from the tray, which I accept, because it feels like the right thing to do. The tray is thick, uneven, and in the vacuum left by the ball I grabbed is some writing painted on messily. “Mom” and a heart is all I see before the tray is back on the desk. I squeeze the ball and breathe.
X. fairyism, n.
I am not in my body for the rest of the interview. I float through the ceiling fan’s blades, watch my body’s mouth answer her questions, don’t hear anything.
XI. taffety, n. and adj.
When I land back in my body, my eyes lock on the curtain over her right shoulder. Teal waves against an overcast sky.
XII. scribacious, adj.
She hands me a composition book with a cheap pen to express my thoughts, saying it can help me process my feelings. She escorts me to a small room with a desk and a twin bed, says we’ll talk tomorrow.
XIII. botheration, int. and n.
I don’t get how writing something is going to help me think about anything. It doesn’t even make sense. I’d just “process” the literal words on the page; there’d be nothing deeper than that. How is writing a detailed play-by-play of me walking to the grocery store going to help anyone do literally anything? It’s just stupid. Fucking pointless.
XIV. slow drag, n.
It was last Tuesday. We were out of milk and bread, so I had to walk to the Safeway on the other side of the apartment complex. Taylor wanted to have Mac and cheese for dinner, but without milk, they couldn’t make it. I suggested just using water, but they scoffed at me. The bread was my idea. I thought it would be good to get a fancy sourdough instead of our usual 12 grain loaf. It’s December; people get to splurge during the holidays. I didn’t realize how icy it was. I saw it snow that morning, yeah, but I figured over the course of the day, it must have thawed out. I was wrong. I only made it around the corner of our building before I slipped. I landed hard on my hip. That’s why there’s a bruise there. Nothing else happened.
XV. ballyhack, n.
Wake up. Breakfast. Write. Group. Write. Lunch. Write. Solo. Dinner. Write. Bed.
XVI. lachrymabund, adj.
It happens suddenly, middle of the the second night. A weight presses on my chest — I can’t breathe. Every memory alive full-throated screaming into a flat pillow, wet with tears.
XVII. fairwater, n.
Around three, I give up on sleep, stare at the constellations in the ceiling tiles. Maybe there is a future where my brain doesn’t eat itself, where my ribs aren’t a windy cavern. I slide the notebook off the nightstand, scribble in the dark.
XVIII. autokinesis, n.
There’s a streetlight visible through the metal mesh of my room’s window. It swings in a wind that doesn’t affect the tree branches or the pole that holds it.
XIX. popskull, n.
The first time was the morning after Taylor shared some moonshine they made in their apartment’s detached garage. It was their first attempt. They were so proud of themself. So I tried it. You have to support your sibling, right? My mouth and throat felt like a python had contracted around them. I took each punch as well as I could. I hadn't had liquor before, but people at my school talk about it all the time, so I figured it would grow on me. A rite of passage or whatever. When I woke up the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like Neil Peart was doing a drum solo on my brain. The pain was unlike anything I’d felt before. Felt like it would never go away. I wanted to let it out. So, I dragged myself to the craft drawer and found the X-Acto knife. Took it to my thigh.
XX. medium coeli, n.
During every solo session, the lady talks to me about what I wrote during the previous writing session as if I’m the protagonist of a tv show she’s binging. Like I fit into some archetype, some box, and she already knows everything about me.
XXI. sunstay, n.
There’s supposed to be some epiphany I have while locked in this room. That’s what they tell me. That’s what happens in movies. Where the fuck is it then?
XXII. supervacaneous, adj.
I give up on correcting her the fifth time she calls Taylor my “brother.” She must have selective hearing or selective memory, at least — whatever fits the narrative. I only need to last one more day.
XXIII. toyi-toyi, n.
“… and that’s why I believe it would not be in your best interest return to your brother’s apartment.” “You can’t.” I stand up. “You can’t.” “It simply isn’t a safe environment for you. Your writing indicates,” she flips open my notebook on her desk, “he served you alcohol, thus creating a situation in which you purposefully harmed yourself,” she flips to an earlier page, “and your bruises have dubious origins that you are not being honest about.” “You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.”
XXIV. belsnickel, n.
Everything feels slow motioned and fast forwarded: my hands slam her desk, two nurses grab my arms, hallway doors like trees along the highway. Last year, Christmas Eve, Taylor spent hours making dinner for the two of us. Because that’s what you do after your family exiles you.
XXV. jough, n.
Christmas night, two years ago. After a day of small talk, stories from decades past, unsolicited advice from aunts and uncles, I escaped to the patio just outside the porch light’s range. Taylor came by, placed a warm mug in my cold hands. We sat in silence under cloudy sky, falling snow.
XXVI. gombey, n.
I put on a stoic face when they come to pick me up with my suitcase. I put on a grateful face when I arrive at a foster home full of strangers. I put on a welcoming face at dinner while I tell stories about a made-up past.
XXVII. lime, n.
There are three other kids around the dinner table. They nod along with my lies, introduce themselves, but their names don’t register in my brain.
XXVIII. ginny gall, n.
I hate it here. It doesn’t matter how much food they give, how much personal space is provided, how much anime we watch. It’s a strange house full of strangers. I hate it here; it doesn't matter.
XXIX. hen-cackle, n.
Under the shroud of pre-dawn twilight, snow crunches under my weight with my suitcase.
XXX. sinigang, n.
I don’t recall these streets, these cars. I try to remember Taylor’s soup — how it made me feel warm, like home even on the coldest nights — and use that to guide me.
XXXI. willie-waught, n.
The place I sit, a bus stop bench, is co’ered in ice and snow. I guess I’ll sleep till morning comes. I wish I had my phone. The cold consumes my fingertips and gulps my soggy toes. While snow upon my hat does pile, my eyes begin to close. I hear my name, a frosty crunch, familiar to my ear. I struggle up, but cannot see; the streetlight's reach too short. But once again, my name is said. I rub my eyes and blink. Then from the dark is Taylor’s scarf unraveling from their neck. They wrap their scarf around me, hold my face in their trembling hands. Sitting beside me, they ask what happened, dig out a flask from their jacket. After a swig, they offer it to me, then take me back home.
a tether loosening
i fade in and out of the present like a maple branch’s shadow on concrete like the stars in a city’s sky like a siren’s doppler effect like the public’s interest in climate change i fade in and out of the world like a radio’s static on the highway like a cell phone’s reception on the coast like the tide of a rising sea like a retina scar against clear blue sky your lips keep moving, but words don’t make it ashore
a windshield, frozen over
sometimes, you feel like a passenger in a car. in motion, but cannot see out of the windshield— the fog too thick. sometimes, you try to protect yourself, give yourself a shield. it is thick, cold; it buries you.
A question I would ask you
Do you think trees get scared when the fog rolls in and they can’t see their friends? That’s a question I would ask you if you weren’t swallowed by the galaxy’s ever-growing throat. Instead, it’s a question I ask myself on my drive home under Sara Bareilles singing about stirring cinnamon into coffee. I climb out of the bedroom window and onto the once-ours roof after dusk that night to watch the sky go through rapid puberty. You don’t notice how much the lights from town pollute it until your favorite constellations, your guideposts, start loosing limbs. Are you watching the same stars fade away? Maybe you’re walking on the sidewalk of the gentrified neighborhood downtown trying to decide whether to spend your grocery money at Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. Maybe you’re sleeping in a box underground. Maybe you’re dust swimming in the Puget Sound around Orcas Island. Maybe you’re star stuff floating out there somewhere, slowly trying to reclaim the sky. I think I like that one best.
Forgotten Mugs
I forgot I made coffee, had to watch it reheat through the perforated grate of my microwave. I saw a mug of Lipton tea spinning in my grandmother’s microwave when she forgot about her tea, after she started starving herself, when she told me, one Sunday morning, the last time she knew my face, “It is Hell to be old and sick.”
After the Colonizers Came
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from October, 2021.
I. decolonize, v.
The tendrils of empire strangle nutrients from the soil. Echoes in the water, the air, your mind itself. It must be undone.
II. septemfluous, adj.
Before they came, many rivers flowed through our land. We prospered — drank, ate well, danced.
III. nidgetty, adj.
When we tell them how things used to be, how we miss those days, they tell us it was a long time ago, it should be forgiven.
IV. anaphor, n.
Every few years, they create a new term for us, convoluting our history, obscuring our identity.
V. niveous, adj.
They came in fine silks, pale as sea foam on the edge of the tide. They brought books with illegible script, weapons beyond comprehension.
VI. queuemanship, n.
Whenever we bring up their unfulfilled promises, we are told to wait our turn. It is clear that the only option is to reclaim our space ourselves.
VII. panoplied, adj.
Rest assured in who you are, who your people are, what you are capable of together.
VIII. mocktail, n.
They think acknowledging what was stolen is enough to make us equal.
IX. cockamamie, n. and adj.
They put on costumes with our sacred symbols for their own amusement.
X. foolosophy, n.
Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume. Conquest. Claim. Consume.
XI. plutomania, n.
ever enough. It is never enough for them. You can seea flame crawl across the landscape in their wake.
XII. mariachi, n. and adj.
We sing our songs in earnest. They sing our songs in jest.
XIII. cakeage, n.
They bring their own crops to our land, because, apparently, our food isn’t good enough. They insist we learn to grow it for them.
XIV. redivivus, adj.
It all seems over,like a waning glacier at summer’s end. It feels like we will wither to nothing, our blood run dry. But these lungs still hold air, these hands still make fists. We will take back what is ours.
XV. zeeping, adj.
A battlecry from graves centuries-old rings in our ears.
XVI. fairy bells, n.
Even flowers hang their heads in mourning.
XVII. almond butter, n.
Their cities are built with concrete made from crushed bones dug up from mass graves of our ancestors.
XVIII. hákarl, n.
They dig up our dead to adorn their museums. They always speak of us in past tense.
XIX. beardom, n.
We come from the bears who protect the mountain. Their strength flows in our veins.
XX. dingolay, v.
Limbs fling wildly with the licks of the fire center stage. Our history told with our bodies to the rhythm of our drums.
XXI. otototoi, int. (and n.)
Our history is full of people who did much to bring us the world we once had. We carry our loss in our chests, nestled between our lungs and heart.
XXII. fastenment, n.
Knowing what was, what will be, makes the safety of our children our top priority.
XXIII. festie, n.
On the autumnal equinox, we used to celebrate that year’s harvest with other groups from around the area. We even invited them after their arrival. We shared our crops, lodging, warmth. They invited more of their people year after year, put gates around the festival grounds, then charged us to gain admittance.
XXIV. fast foodery, n.
Convenience, they argue, is the heart of their market. Affordable, they say, for our low-income community.
XXV. almuce, n.
We ride in horseback, furs handed down from our ancestors under our cloaks. They will hear the thunder of our hooves roll across the hills. They will hear the roar of our grief and anger roll across the sky.
XXVI. aloed, adj.
To think of what was lost, how much cannot be undone, stirs a storm.
XXVII. amrita, n.
Before we ride, we bask in the moon’s light, drink the blood of gods for their courage, their power.
XXVIII. badman, n.
They tell stories of us stealing their food, capturing their children, killing without conscience. They call us savages.
XXIX. nostalgist, n.
When they talk about the good old days, we don’t see idyllic villages, friendly neighbors. We see hateful slurs graffitied on the walls outside our prison cells.
XXX. unmute, v.
For generations, they took from us. For generations, they kept us from telling our stories. It ends now. It ends with us.
XXXI. hattock, n.
Our ancestors’ spirits hover over us as we fight for freedoms taken from them, for homes taken from them. Our future — our children’s children’s futures — will be full of lush crops, wide-open spaces, our wrinkled faces telling our stories.
Truefast; Or, Inherited from the Gods
It is imperative, Elliot, that you pay attention. Our fate may fall in your hands one day, and time may take me before then, so you must remember this on your own. There is a word my elders taught me (yes, there are people older than me) that has been passed down since gods walked among us that you must learn. Hausaflortum. It means ‘sanctuary’ in a language related to Celestial that branched off when mortals figured out how to talk to gods. Travelers from our village created safe houses in every corner of the world that open to that word in case any of us ever need it. There are stories of old adventurers who even used this spell to protect ancient temples, maybe even gods themselves.
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 Confirmation #: 611391225
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.
M. Espinosa 