PROSE POETRY
KATHRYN KIMBALL
She often eats opium
She often eats opium to see again the pink flocked wallpaper of her childhood. "Come here, little hussies," she says, calling the blackbirds to her sill, tempting them with bits of grated cheese. "To keep a secret is wisdom," is her favorite saying. "And folly to expect others to do so," rejoins her irascible husband. She wears red bow-barrettes in her crimped, still blonde hair, streaks purple shadow on her eyelids. Daily, onto her right cheek, she glues a patch of black taffeta in the shape of a heart. This afternoon, her sizable bust, round like sweet buns, will loom over the AGA as she prepares the tea. "Do have a biscuit" she will coax her husband, as she picks up the pot and pours.
Kathryn Kimball grew up in Alabama, has an MFA and PhD, taught nineteenth-century literature, and lives in New York City. Her published work includes a 2021 chapbook, a book of poetry to appear in 2025, and poems and French translations in various journals, including Atlanta Review, Blue Mountain Review, Galway Review, and Solstice. She won the Columbia Journal’s 2023 prize for translation.
