Katherine's Coffeehouse

poetry about the pandemic coronavirus COVID19 by Katherine Gotthardt


Every day is fear now, blocking out potential, masking the possible, making it hard to breathe. That’s how sickness works. That’s how blame works. That’s how the world stands: silently, in the rain.

Interview Tips for Artists and Writers

Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting with the National League of American Pen Women, D.C. Chapter. They asked me to present some tips for artists who are being interviewed for magazine and journal articles. (I was asked to do this because I’ve interviewed quite a few artists representing themselves, as well as groups.) …

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Sorry, Emily

Because I could not stop for death, he kindly passed me by – he, dark winged and disappointed. Me, content with my busy pen – writing away mortality.


That time in the Mexican mountains, I said I was being followed. It wasn’t so much that you listened (though I loved you for capturing that pic, casually on the hiking trail, then later in the cantina – your face when you saw, yes, it was the same blond woman tagging along like a bad …

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leaves of grass

Every Atom

That day you hummed the song of myself – I assume you assumed I’d fallen for it. I did. Have you felt so proud since, every atom belonging to me belonging to you? Well? Have you? Apologies to Walt Whitman


Lighting the lavender votive, I remember you and me, vitamins, mood stabilizers, coffee. And that little tin of scones, blue with sketches of Victorian women, hoop-dressed, press-on rhinestones. How much fun we had sticking those gems on. The Queen would be horrified, we said. Is she?


Paper sheets the floor, tossed with two red pens, caps, White-Out, and angst. Another manuscript salad gone wrong.


You brought it to the pawn shop, the only silver I’d ever owned. Perhaps I’ll buy it back. Save it from strangers. Give it to you for Christmas. Oh, your eyes.


Recall waves bye like a tired baby, confusion puckering, the right words already asleep, unintelligible taking over. No one seems to know why. Maybe it’s the surgeries. Maybe it’s the age. Maybe it’s the strict stride of burdensome time, the hobble of gray matter trying to keep up, child reverting to crawling, attempting to cruise, …

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Spring Thaw

Remember when the sun offered us just enough to turn snow in the road to puddles? Mom said the wanted words: Yes, you can ride your bike now. You pedaled through salt and sand and every mini-pond for miles, soaking the bottom of your corduroys. They stuck to your ankles, dripped down your socks, into …

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