I’ve typed half an email to you a dozen times, desperate as a maple reaching over a scenic byway. Do you remember when we used to communicate through the wind? I could hear your voice, your thoughts, just by how you exhaled through your nose during one of Mr. Slater’s lectures. We could be states apart, but I would still know; thoughts were leaves on autumnal breezes falling on the mossy forest floor. Heavy currents eroded our bridge, felled trees snapped our power lines, space debris brought down our satellites, and now you’re just ones and zeros — a silent amalgamation of pixels.
Tag: Writing
A Tsunami Advisory
She asks if you’re awake. Your eyes struggle open. Her silhouette blurry in your tent’s doorway against the morning’s overcast sky. Your throat attempts a word. She tells you not to panic — a volcano erupted across the ocean; the National Weather Service said there’s a chance for a tsunami along the coast where you’re camping. “Not a warning, an advisory.” You nod your head, eyes closing. She zips the tent flap closed as she leaves. Brisk air bites your face, which peeks out of your cocoon. You see waves tower over the shore, lift your tent, rip its stakes out of the ground. You wonder whether you and your sleeping bag would float along the surf to the cranberry fields down the road. You wonder whether that would be the worst outcome. You see your classroom; your students; a painted rock gifted by one, defaced with a slur by another, left under your desk. You feel failure, consider the possibility they would be better off with another teacher. You remind yourself: your brain does this all the time, there is evidence to the contrary. You can’t see any.
A Traveler’s Hymn
Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from January, 2022.
I. caravette, n.
He packed his bags and threw them back behind the driver’s seat. His destination was not known, but still he headed east. The engine revved, the shifter clicked, and gravel stirred below. His horn honked twice, he waved his arm, and turned onto the road.
II. limbo, v.
The highway’s flat and straight until the city’s skyline spouts and overpasses form above his head so full of doubt. He ducked his head — no logic there — when under every one. And all the morning, he did chase his guiding light: the sun.
III. hagiologist, n.
He prayed to Bona, Pisa’s saint, as dusk became the night. She watches over travelers, when the sun is not so bright. His eyes were heavy, night was young; at some point he must stop. He hoped that Bona'd keep him safe; his head his arm did prop.
IV. chutzpasik, adj.
He drove nonstop throughout the night to see the coast at dawn. Not tired, he said, then shook his head when lines began to yawn. His car’s warm hood, while parked askew, sent steam into the sky. The sun did peek from o’er the sea; its beauty made him cry.
V. hagfish, n.
When hunger fin'lly sank its teeth into his quiv’ring ribs, he walked across the parking lot, and tore off trash can lids. He dug around to find some food inside curled fast food bags. A bite or two to get him through that morning’s final drag.
VI. belongingness, n.
He ate, returned to beach’s edge, and inhaled salty air. He combed his matted hair by wind and at horizon stared. He breathed in tandem with the sea — the tidal ebb and flow. He wanted this to last fore’er, but knew he had to go.
VII. driving box, n.
The driver’s seat was worn and cold and sighed when sat upon. He had to find a job so that he’d have new clothes to don. His wrinkled shirt from Applebee’s was fading, tearing more. It’d lasted sev’ral summers, but no longer could be worn.
VIII. up a daisy, int.
He drove until a hiring sign did fin’lly ‘pear downtown, then par’lleled parked across the street, the visor’s mirror down. A deep breath there, then slapped his face and stared into his eyes. “You got this, Adam,” said he then, and donned a clip-on tie.
IX. ghostbuster, n.
“For months now, we have heard these wails from down below the shop. We’re ‘fraid a spirit’ll one day rise, the floor our blood will mop. “Now, I’ve been told a spell exists, or something science-y, to rid us of this blight. Can you? We’d pay you handsomely.”
X. inadvisably, adv.
No hesitation in his voice, he took the job and said, “I’ve never failed to catch a ghost or zombie or undead.” The shopkeep pointed to the door that to the basement lead. His confidence successf’lly hid a plan to fake instead.
XI. gee-whizzery, n.
Atop the stairs, she left him there to go down on his own. Her glasses fogged with nervous sweat, her legs were heavy stone. He closed the door to hide his work and falsify results. So dark and cold, a thick’ning fog reveals something occult.
XII. zom-com, n.
A paw broke through the concrete floor with saggy, patchy flesh. Long nose and tail, now on all fours, teeth flared to eat afresh. Then Adam reached behind his back to find something to throw. He didn’t know ’til out his hand, it was a squeaky bone.
XIII. scrimmaging, adj.
Like lightning, pounced the dog on bone, whose squeaks to heaven cried. Its rubber shards like mist in fog; its tone grew low and died. The dog’s eye sockets, empty voids, to Adam turned at once. T’ward him a blur of fur did dash like he’s the prey it hunts.
XIV. bridle-wise, adj.
In grade school, Adam wrangled cows at Uncle Nathan’s ranch. When bored of ropes and tying knots, he’d settle calves by hand. His callused palms had softened since, but muscle mem’ry stayed. He took a stance to catch the dog in order to get paid.
XV. ghoulishness, n.
He caught the dog with thund’rous boom, the hind legs in his hands. The sound of crackling tendons popped like snapping rubber bands. Adrenaline had blinded him, so fearing for his life. Removed both legs, then broke each bone and grabbed his pocketknife.
XVI. summum malum, n.
To throat he took his knife to slice to separate the brain from body; with no signal then on concrete floor it lain. From out the neck, a thicker fog as black as void did rise. It filled the walls, and ‘cross the room, as red as blood, were eyes.
XVII. sitooterie, n.
Engulfed in black, no gravity nor distance clear, alert he was to all. A canvas rip below him revealed dirt. He staggered back onto his feet. A willow tree gave shade to chairs, a man in tailored suit with red eyes said his name.
XVIII. cardioid, n. and adj.
“Now Adam, why would you do that? My heart, you drive a stake.” His voice consumed all other sound, left silence in his wake. “You’ve killed my dog, I can’t forgive this slight upon my house.” He raised his palm, a flash of light, in flames, the willow doused.
XIX. garden bean, n.
While burning branches fell around his twitchy, icy hands, he balled his fists, assumed the stance that he, for ages, planned. He knew the man with eyes of blood would find him once again. His constant moving to escape from every demon sent.
XX. fantysheeny, adj.
His pocketknife, passed down to him on father’s bed of death, vibrated harsh — a phantom pain, perhaps his final breath. Unsheathed then clicked the blade in place, glowed yellow, orange by flame. “I’ll exorcise you with this knife that bares my father’s name.”
XXI. baje, adj. and n.
He lunged with blade in hand and dodged a fist engulfed in fire. He stabbed with a calypso beat against the well-dressed pyre. So many holes, his knife did leave, in that maroon suit coat. No blood did pour around its waist, no fibers drenched or soaked.
XXII. witching, n.
Despair set in; defeat was near — he’d die without a sound. Blue waves of light flowed ‘crossed his knife; he spotted dewy ground. He plunged the blade into the spot, then twisted it in place. His arm aimed toward the eyes of blood set in his father’s face.
XXIII. spirit-stirring, adj.
He felt a stream of water flow from blade through arm to chest. A geyser ‘rupted out his palm at he so finely dressed. He heard a scream, ethereal, while launching his attack. His father’s howling scream was there to take his body back.
XXIV. meet-cute, n.
The flames extinguished, eyes of blood evaporated then in mist unholy darkened sky. His father back again. The sky, grown black, engulfed the tree and everything around. He woke up ‘gainst the shopkeep’s chair, the basement door unbound.
XXV. ram-stam, adj., adv., and n.
He wiped his hair, and dust and ash cascaded to the floor. “Your problem’s gone, I guarantee. No ghosts will haunt your store. “About your door, I’m sorry that I broke it off its hinge, but can your help me to my feet? my lower back’s a twinge.”
XXVI. jai, int.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, so, so much! The door is no big deal, ‘cause you have saved us all. Can I repay you with a meal?” She blushed, and o’er her ear she brushed her soft magenta hair. She did not meet his eyes, because the floor is where she stared.
XXVII. toydom, n.
His heart still fast, like jumbled words, the pictures in his head. His vocal cords did vibrate, but he knew not what he said. She helped him off the floor and walked across the shop. Sunset. His body moved all on its own — strung like a marionette.
XXVIII. swag, n.
A wave had crashed along the shore as they had sauntered by. His lungs were full of salty air; he felt he’d never die. His thoughts and limbs back in control; his body fully his. He fin’lly asked her ‘bout herself; she said she goes by Liz.
XXIX. banteringly, adv.
The restaurant Liz chose was lit by candlelight’s dim glow. The sun, which set o’er harbor west, was split by masts of boats. They joked about the days they had way after food was done. The conversation was so nice, he felt no want to run.
XXX. drivel, n.
The truest form of ease, of home, is when you talk about whatever happens to come up, as free as geysers’s spouts. So, Liz and Adam talked all night until they kicked them out. But then, they just walked ‘round the pier — a moonlit walkabout.
XXXI. haggard, n.
Throughout the night, unceasingly, his thoughts returned to home: an aging farm, his father back to tend it on his own. He built a shell, their future pruned, he tried to not look sad. “As much as I would like to stay, I need to help my dad."
We went to see my grandfather
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.
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.
M. Espinosa 