Spectacle
This is how I remember you, white apron speckled with red sauce, spectacles on the end of your nose, eyes […]
This is how I remember you, white apron speckled with red sauce, spectacles on the end of your nose, eyes […]
I look down, and it’s on my thigh, just sitting there, sucking the last bit of self from me, and
I learned young to serve: ring the bell at Christmas, thank strangers for their change, handle hot tongs, release chicken
Of all pandemics I’ve survived, you are my favorite, teaching me what it means to be alive. Okay, I admit
The irony of language: it’s a gorgeous word. Say it out loud: language. Say it for the sake of linguistics.
Turn off the morning news. Go to the old stereo. Turn on the blues. Because if anyone knows the trouble
Every day is fear now, blocking out potential, masking the possible, making it hard to breathe. That’s how sickness works.
Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting with the National League of American Pen Women, D.C. Chapter. They asked
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Because I could not stop for death, he kindly passed me by – he, dark winged and disappointed. Me, content
That time in the Mexican mountains, I said I was being followed. It wasn’t so much that you listened (though
That day you hummed the song of myself – I assume you assumed I’d fallen for it. I did. Have
Lighting the lavender votive, I remember you and me, vitamins, mood stabilizers, coffee. And that little tin of scones, blue
Paper sheets the floor, tossed with two red pens, caps, White-Out, and angst. Another manuscript salad gone wrong.
You brought it to the pawn shop, the only silver I’d ever owned. Perhaps I’ll buy it back. Save it
Recall waves bye like a tired baby, confusion puckering, the right words already asleep, unintelligible taking over. No one seems
Remember when the sun offered us just enough to turn snow in the road to puddles? Mom said the wanted
In the cinema, pudgy recliner holding me in its vinyl hand, your own hand holding mine – I want to
Hope leaked out of the lunch bin, into my laptop bag, messing up the expected. What is this new Monday
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Always up a hill smell of heaviness and hay the elephant house -Katherine Gotthardt #KatherinesCoffeehouse