by Katharine Kaufman | Feb 17, 2019 | today
Today the frost clings on all the branches equally like how fire clings to a log. ~ I sit here in the studio. I miss Gay, my dear friend. She’s in Berkley still, and we’ve been out of touch. We met at University of Colorado as choreography students. Our lockers were...
by Katharine Kaufman | Dec 24, 2018 | today
This morning, right after the sun, I scraped ice off windshield and drove East, past black cows, brown horses, corn and oil fields, into the small town of Mead. A huge decoration says, Peace on Earth. Deflated plastic Santa and reindeer lie on the ground. We lie on...
by Katharine Kaufman | Nov 27, 2018 | today
I’ve never told anyone this before, the guest says to Terri Gross. I lean into the kitchen counter, turn up the radio. Here comes the reveal: The world class chef sometimes eats Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwiches for supper. Oh. ~...
by Katharine Kaufman | Nov 7, 2018 | today
At the suicide prevention training class, the teacher says; Who in this room has ever considered suicide? I raise my hand quickly. And one other person. Everyone swivels to face us. Hasn’t everyone wondered? I say. Doesn’t the person who thinks, sometimes think, I...
by Katharine Kaufman | Sep 30, 2018 | today
“And when it reached the open door love itself was gone.” ~ Leonard Cohen At the tree park I can hear the high school game. At home I can hear it. It’s night and September and I’m sweating. The crowd chants together in boosts, along with drums. ~ I carry...
