Every second, you give up a little more, stare at the space between us, mumble one-word answers, refuse your favorite sandwich. I understand. It’s part of the sickness, part of what stitches our suffering together. No pill or doctor can cure us. So I sit with you as you empty the last bits of yourself […]
Age grow in at the edges, each experience white, baby-fine. Try not to judge these wispy years while we become what we’re meant to be. -Katherine Gotthardt
It is Wednesday, and I put my work on pause. I find my old art bag, carry watercolor pencils to Battlefield Park. My leggings pick up hitch hikers, their bristles clinging to me, as if I were a spring tree, and they, leaves. And suddenly, I am six again, wearing fuchsia, new sneakers already muddy.
All love is an afterthought, an ideal that whispers “remember me,” carrying us, wildflowers in a basket, petals falling, lighting on the edge of gravel. Funny how the road boasted victory. I just remember the windlessness, the still miracle that carried us gently, setting us down with purpose. There we waited for the next rain,
Recall waves bye like a tired baby, confusion puckering, the right words already asleep, unintelligible taking over. No one seems to know why. Maybe it’s the surgeries. Maybe it’s the age. Maybe it’s the strict stride of burdensome time, the hobble of gray matter trying to keep up, child reverting to crawling, attempting to cruise,
See how time moves, slinking along like some aging cat, shoulders hunched against the moon, a silhouette of fur and philosophy? My dog barks at it, wants to rip its throat out. “Settle down now, dingo. We’ve all got our job to do. That’s a girl. Go lie down. It’s almost time for bed.”
All screens switch. Not momentarily – any milli-moment. Count them in fractions. One-one hundredth. Two. Dissolved into some vague animation where a single slide begets another, crumbled pixels, the one before lost in the attention span of a short-sighted user. What matters is the next page, yes? What happens is the following, when nothing we
I submitted because I saw ‘defenestration’ in a WWII detective novel, and had to look it up. The same day I discovered a journal of the same name, so I sent the poems in, thinly clad, barely edited, but mine. That’s no joke, but the timing – o timing is a funny belt we loosen
1970’s ornaments, smell of pine, plastic, old cardboard, memories of my mom, leaking from the box. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
