Kate Garklavs
Letter to Andrea from the Kitchen
I like things shaped like other things. You’ll forgive
the paint chip exposing a kidney, white peeling
yellow peeling blue. I’m reimaging my personal brand,
shorthand for large-scale shopping; resurfacing
my hair which means follicular reinvention. The walls
hold buried baby shoes, skeletons–cats planted
by the Dutch who built this house, three humid
generations before the collapse. I edge
my nail beneath the lead veneer. I’m watching
my weight which translates to stagnation. Building
my career which translates to not much. Forgive
my inability to roll the bins to the street: I’m avoiding
decay however it finds me. Someday we’ll take down
a wall and revel in the dust we ignore.
Letter to Micah from Our Shared Residence
In our diamond future we are richer
than all gods and it means not a whit.
Trees still bring petals and moths.
Wool socks ignite as we sit fireside,
our whiskeys melting each other. Still,
ideal to spend each morning abed:
crisp palm to the ass and poached
eggs afterward, and toast.
In our charcoal future I’ve forgotten
the napkins and we rotate use
of my gingham hemline, neighbor kids
crowding their panes to better glimpse
our yard’s disgrace. Noon, picnic.
Rosé in waxed paper and hot dogs
gone bunless. Glad to keep good
humor about necessities, things
we tally daily, slowly, never in writing.
In our current future a vague bird
haunts our window, black and airy
and never in view. Pull the coverlet high
and tight, the braid from its elastic tail.
Days, we barricade the entrance with
primitive thoughts, nights much the same.
Curl your form to my arm and wait
for the passage–graceful–here. I love
your fucking reckless face. Love, Kate.
Kate Garklavs is a graduate of the UMass Amherst Fiction program, She currently lives and works in San Francisco. Her work has previously appeared in Tammy, The Tusculum Review, and Two Serious Ladies.
Return to November 2014 Edition
I like things shaped like other things. You’ll forgive
the paint chip exposing a kidney, white peeling
yellow peeling blue. I’m reimaging my personal brand,
shorthand for large-scale shopping; resurfacing
my hair which means follicular reinvention. The walls
hold buried baby shoes, skeletons–cats planted
by the Dutch who built this house, three humid
generations before the collapse. I edge
my nail beneath the lead veneer. I’m watching
my weight which translates to stagnation. Building
my career which translates to not much. Forgive
my inability to roll the bins to the street: I’m avoiding
decay however it finds me. Someday we’ll take down
a wall and revel in the dust we ignore.
Letter to Micah from Our Shared Residence
In our diamond future we are richer
than all gods and it means not a whit.
Trees still bring petals and moths.
Wool socks ignite as we sit fireside,
our whiskeys melting each other. Still,
ideal to spend each morning abed:
crisp palm to the ass and poached
eggs afterward, and toast.
In our charcoal future I’ve forgotten
the napkins and we rotate use
of my gingham hemline, neighbor kids
crowding their panes to better glimpse
our yard’s disgrace. Noon, picnic.
Rosé in waxed paper and hot dogs
gone bunless. Glad to keep good
humor about necessities, things
we tally daily, slowly, never in writing.
In our current future a vague bird
haunts our window, black and airy
and never in view. Pull the coverlet high
and tight, the braid from its elastic tail.
Days, we barricade the entrance with
primitive thoughts, nights much the same.
Curl your form to my arm and wait
for the passage–graceful–here. I love
your fucking reckless face. Love, Kate.
Kate Garklavs is a graduate of the UMass Amherst Fiction program, She currently lives and works in San Francisco. Her work has previously appeared in Tammy, The Tusculum Review, and Two Serious Ladies.
Return to November 2014 Edition