Poems & Essays

22 Apr


General/Column No Response

Our son was only

a year old when you told him,

“divorce is the worst thing

that could happen to a family,”

then went outside, watered

fruit trees. A breeze

curled the curtain against

the window frame,

a spider crawled across

the kitchen floor, our son drained

all the apple juice from

his sippy-cup. I prayed Lord, Lord.

I prayed thunderbolt, lightning,

omen, sign. Outside,

sunlight played with folds

in your t-shirt as I watched you

through the window, my belly

hard, ripe, against

the countertop—our daughter

kicking inside.


Kimberly Ann currently teaches freshman composition at Central Michigan University where she is also pursing a graduate degree in Creative Writing. She lives with her children and a small dog in a small house, in a small village, in the central Michigan area. Her poems have appeared in Ruminate Magazine, Temenos, The Central Review and on Narrativality coffee bags.

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