I (un)knowingly eat them for lunch: multigrain crackers, goat cheese, side of fresh ripened figs– Their wings, the dark slits of their eyes. What does it mean to pretend to not know what you are knowingly doing? To ignore fact for fiction, to (un)know it was already the end the first time he kept going after you were (un)sure you told him to stop. To pretend he must not have heard you easier than (un) knowing he did but just didn’t care. To slip into that white space beyond t

The pharmacist said that these ones would make me feel wired. And as I exit, I find it nauseating. This beat-up sedan begs me to drive it off the road. I stare into every window in this college town. I disrespect every ounce of privacy these people think they have. I stick my med head out of my window to get a good whiff of the air. It smells rancid, almost fermented, and yet somehow it reminds me of Florida circa 2015, balmy and wet on an obligatory vacation. I wake up in po

Of all the labels they’ve assigned to me, my favorite by far is “difficult daughter”— because it comes with a built-in sisterhood. (Such a fierce and sacred circle to be held in.) We cruise through life with the droptop down wild hair riding waves in the wind. Our middle fingers like match sticks, one strike away from lighting up the night sky. We drink rum from the bottle and laugh when it burns on the way down because grown men say it puts hair on your chest, but we pour it

See what you have inherited-I have placed it next to your ear as you slept. You wake up before me and so have your own time to examine it, give into awe, grow bored and discard it. By the time I come to see what you’ve made of it, it’s gone and you don’t know where, there are grains of sand on your pillow, nothing more. I thought the seaside would be perfect for us, the beach thick with fat sun, the cold water I would teach you to swim in. instead the air choked me, I was too

It’s a choice Whether to wash something Or write something Or vacuum something Or to call up something  From the caves of memory To cook something Or to marinate A childhood scene Too painful to remember Too poignant to forget. Karen Kimbro Johnson is a poet, novelist, visual artist and the author of the debut novel, “Climbing the Crystal Stairs.” She was accepted into the competitive Grubstreet Novel Writing Generator Program taught by Marjan Kamali. Karen was also selected

Kathy    It comforts and depresses me, being home. The soggy seaside-ness of it all, the town suffering a life under siege from the ocean breeze. There’s a familiar flatness in the sky and the weather-beaten lady in the chippy still refers to me as “girl”.   I’m always wary when I turn the key in my mum’s front door - anxious about what awaits me. The years of my mother’s turmoil are now etched into her face. They pool  around her stomach in a cushion of unwanted fat. Her med

It is 3pm on a Friday afternoon and I am thinking of you, Mama. I am thinking of your stub of a nose that resembles mine. I am thinking of the gold chain around your neck and how my sister and I wear ones identical to it with our own Chinese zodiac signs. I am thinking of how I rarely have any pictures of the two of us together past the age of twelve. I am thinking of the playlist I made for your birthday one year, how you listen to it everyday and say it is the best gift any

I A time for ardor   Refrain from embracing? Why? Who would do that? How was I, after all, to refrain from any part of you with you lying there on that red blanket; in that green grass; under, naturally, that blue sky? Ecclesiastes would have nagged me had I refrained. I needed no nagging.     II A time for dishabille   I’ve read this book twice, but find no discussion of time for undoing your belt, unbuttoning your jeans, or unzipping your fly—but nor does it mention time fo

“It’s ridiculous. It’s taking you hours, practically a whole afternoon to get ready.” There was unconcealed disapproval in my father’s tone. He was scornful of women who primped and preened before presenting themselves to the world, scoffed about the wife of a colleague who took an hour to do her hair and makeup each morning before heading out to teach eight-year-olds. Mum wasn’t like that. Practical, sporty and tanned – a woman with a low golf handicap who could back a trail