by Katharine Kaufman | Sep 28, 2020 | today
I reach up, open the screen door, and slide the stop flap in place. The gesture is a clue for the dogs that it’s time to come inside. But since my fracture they know I’m slower, and care less if they’re in or out. And they’re timid. The crutches are strange. New...
by Katharine Kaufman | Jul 9, 2020 | today
Sittin’ on a pin, too tired to get up Johnny Watson I’m standing, after...
by Katharine Kaufman | May 11, 2020 | today
Out my window it’s raining and if I were to walk outside I would be in the rain, and I think of the short poem by William Carlos Williams, that you probably know. I wondered why the word barrow was separated out in the poem, from wheel. I only now discovered barrow...
by Katharine Kaufman | Mar 18, 2020 | today
In South India in February, March and April 1997 we kept our hands off banisters when we visited friends in the Metropole Hotel and didn’t hold onto railings of rickshaws. We stopped sticking our fingers in our mouths and washed our mangos, papayas and bananas before...
by Katharine Kaufman | Feb 11, 2020 | today
I can’t find the Atlas Theater. I drive in circular patterns through CU’s Boulder campus. Like a dream, something is familiar (I went to school here). When I’m lost I follow random people. I follow another car through the Do Not Enter sign, which takes me right there....
by Katharine Kaufman | Jan 1, 2020 | today
Look. This is your world! You can’t not look. There is no other world. This is your world; it is your feast. ~Chögyam Trungpa “You may not feel the light, but you are the light.” That’s going to be my topic tonight, I decide. I am outside the studio before...
