Shoulder Kisses


Some kisses are apologizes, some are hurried preludes to more, and some are engagement rings and lasting dreams. And his kiss, this lingering kiss on my shoulders, was like he was admiring the strength of where I carry my burdens. He traced his lips up the staircase that leads to my hungry mind only to move back to the gentle dip of my collarbone filled with Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte.

This is when I froze in utter confusion. Normally we are in a rushed dance, one where true affection and feelings are not required. We agreed on casual kissing, but in my heart there has never been anything casual about kissing. That’s not the “chill” thing to think, and truthfully I am about as chill as the Sub-Saharan Desert on a good day. Because with every kiss I want to say, “Come rest your heart here” but I save it for a time he’s not in such a hurry. That time never comes.

That is until he kissed my shoulders. For a moment it felt he was there to stay. The moon can tell the earth its uninterested but its orbit says otherwise. Yet it’s silly of me to pretend he is my moon because I am no earth- I am a blazing wildfire and he wants a calm sea to swim on occasion.

I’m kidding no one, not even myself. Regardless of how many kisses we twist ourselves into I can’t become someone I was never meant to be. I can’t be someone’s sea when I am meant to burn.


Art Courtesy of Eugenia Loli




I officially entered the stages of adulthood yesterday by separating my colors from my whites while doing laundry. Normally, I just chuck them all in together. I don’t even bother with the temperature or those annoying washing instructions that I cut off from my tee shirts. Never have I had a problem with shrinking or seeping colors, either.

For years I have been convinced people around me were lying about this bleeding colors thing, surely everyone was set on adding more time and hassle to chores to keep us women domesticated and stuck at home. But it sounded too ridiculous to believe, at the age of 22, that separating laundry was some clandestine sexist conspiracy, so I gave up my defiant ways and decided I should do my laundry like an adult.

My laundry isn’t the only adultish thing I’ve been adapting to lately. My mother is pleased to know after graduation I’ve committed to a ‘real job.’ What she’s not so pleased with is that it’s located in Warsaw and requires a lot of traveling. I could think of worse things..

In the coming months, I’ll be searching for a flat, which means I won’t be a nomad living out of my one duffle bag hopping from people’s couches or the occasional airconditionless beach house. Even more drastic for me, is the notes I now keep with various paint colors for my future place. I’m debating between Nimbus Grey or Apricot for the bathroom.

It’s all pretty exciting actually. I’ll have a flat- my own space filled with real art, travel memorabilia, bookshelves, Polish pottery and properly washed laundry hung up next to a fern I’m set on naming Angie.

I know myself and my hunger well enough to know these plans are subject to change depending on the day, the weather, and the country of the man I fall in love with this time around. But making these plans constitute as a step towards adulthood.

Cheers to growing up, or at least the paint colors and proper laundry suggest I’m doing so.



Art courtesy off Beth Hoeckel

Love after Love-Derek Walcott

I'll rise.jpg

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

God’s Poem


I recite literature to God. He likes the ones I can’t get through without tears, mainly because He knows I’m offering my soul and not just steering words with autopilot.

Sometimes I use my own, other times someone says it better than I ever could and I trust that God accepts it the same. So this one Thursday night, Sylvia Plath said my prayer,

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”


As I sat under Plath’s fig tree God remained tied tongued- tongue tied, I wondered if He too was trying to borrow just the right words.

After laying in that awful silence for over a week God spoke, “I saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou [me]? Thou shalt see great things than these.” Luke 1:50.

The silence was broken to remind me God has always been the best of Poets..


Art Courtesy of Carlo Mattioli

Trust the Hours- Galway Kinnell


Trust the Hours- Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. The desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair, music of pain,
music of looms weaving our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.



We are the misfits. The Gay Makeup Artist in a Mormon town who hides his lip glosses like stolen candy. The Theater Guy who has a more extensive emotional vocabulary than Dickinson and Plath combined. The Hippie Girl with waves of hair down to her Sanskrit spray-on tattoo who recites Deepak Chopra like scripture. And me, The Wanna-be Poet, who got us all together every Monday night hoping to make a home out of a place we all feel so lost in.

Together we feel real, like our words can exit the script. We can say the things we maybe shouldn’t say but have kept lodged in our brains next to all our gathered shame. From the first time we met together over my gourmet canned spaghetti and cheezits, I distinctly remember feeling like God was smiling.

There is something serendipitous about meeting people you never have to preface your thoughts with “Excuse my blasphemy,” or “I know I shouldn’t feel this but…” That freedom we feel together in our openness gives us room to mend each other’s wounds. It feels a lot like love.. It feels a lot like God.

I once learned understanding God comes through understanding his children. I know that takes a lifetime. For us it will take many more Monday nights sitting around my rundown beach-house table sharing stories of the times we feared we would never find people who love us the way we feel loved now.

Art by: Ben Giles 

My Stinging Confession


I haven’t really stopped entertaining the idea of him reappearing. Every other aspect of my life has moved on when enough stuttering breathes passed through with each unwanted sunrise. As much as I hated the thought of it, time really does heal.

Grief hasn’t permanently prevented me from joy, but it has redefined it. At this point I’ve given up forcing myself to exclude him completely from my mind. I’ll even occasionally let him be with me as I take in the vast sea on my morning runs, “I still love you, you know” I’ll whisper it and let it wash over me only to recede with the tide. I pray somehow the swell will take it past the coral to bring him my stinging confession.


Art by-Courtney Mattison



I value incompatibilities, disagreements and uncertainties that break up reality into fragments of truth and illusion and open the door to invention. When Humpty Dumpty falls off a wall and smashes his egg-shell into little pieces, there is an alternative to just gluing those pieces together again. It is also possible to make an omelette out of the mess, combined with many other ingredients and not only with ones to which one is accustomed. The future is an endless series of experiments.

– Theodore Zeldin

Art Courtesy of Christopher Chiappa

Transitions- faith and doubt


I’ve been so afraid to say it. it. say it. it. it.. Say IT. I’ve heard other’s say it, cry it, whisper it, yell it, and all I’ve wanted to do is save them from their words. “Take it back” I wish to say to them, “You don’t mean it, you’re just lost, confused, you haven’t prayed hard enough. SHHHHH don’t say it. It. It.. Don’t say it!”

But really those pleadings have never really been for them. No, they’ve been for me. “Katie, you don’t mean it, you’re just lost, confused, you just haven’t prayed hard enough, SHHHH just wait a little longer, it will be okay if you just forget it. Just don’t you dare say it.”

Then one completely unspectacular morning it fell out of me like gravity stole it from my clenched teeth. I waited squeezed fists, eyes closed, in silence hoping somehow I could clean the wreckage and the splatter when it reached the ground. But as it fell through the air, echoing, dancing and twirling in its newfound freedom I realized I didn’t want it cleaned.

Instead, I wanted to give it room or a canvas even. I wanted to see what could be made from this spill, this mess, this truth and all its untogetherness.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW!! There, I said it! I’m sure sometimes I’ll cry it, sometimes whisper it but right now I can’t help but yell it so I can hear my own voice for what feels like the first time, “I don’t know!”

And finally, that’s okay.


“Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous ‘I don’t know.”

-Wislawa Szymborkska 

Art: Jerome Lawrence