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The Nomination by Jill
“Kate is what to read when you don't know what you need. When you're flinching and the world's on fire. She's brought the warm breeze, the Jameson—and the smoke? It's already curling. This poem is on fire. Kate’s writing will always send you somewhere else. Might be to an all-girls construction crew in Provincetown in 1987. This time, it’s to a fire escape, floating above a troubled world. Sit there with her for a moment, to escape the fire, and let this poem grab you by the ears, lift you swinging ten stories up, and hand you the bottle. It's a corker. Enjoy.’’
– Jill, Life Litter
“Prescription” by Kate Mapother
I need something. Something strong. A diagnosis that doesn’t involve self-care or cutting sugar or gluten. I need a professional. Someone with some gravitas to say: You know what you need, Kate— you need a fire escape on the 10th floor. A perfect breeze and a bottle of amber liquor between your legs. I’ll write you a script for something that burns going down. Something that throws you like a lead anchor into that lovely dappled place where you sink to the bottom of it all but feel like you’re in a penthouse at the top of the world. The instructions are to sit there quietly. High above the traffic. Tune into the TAP TAP of a pack of Marlboro Red’s against your thigh like a cigarette fidget spinner. Lose yourself in the click and snap of the heavy Zippo lid warming in your hand. Click-snap. Open-shut. Like your heart lately. Then, open. Thumb the flint wheel and light it up, love. It’s okay. None of it will kill you. Not tonight. Not the alcohol or the nicotine or even the fall from grace. Just, let it go. It’ll get you out of your head so you can sleep. Tonight, it’s all about magic. In the morning, I promise, the wars will be over and the peaceniks will have moved in next door. Overnight, your friend will no longer say ‘survivor’ when they ask her who she is. She’ll be a king, an angel, a merriment. She’ll change her name and live on Easy Street. She’ll always leave a light on for you. Her eyes will be so bright, you’ll stop worshiping the moon. You’ll fall hopeful at each other’s feet in love with how easy it is to be happy. Free. And filthy fuckin rich. You’ll ceasefire and heal. You’ll be healed and you’ll matriarch. You’ll be queerer than you were before your diagnosis. How glorious. When you wake in the morning— clear-headed, sure-footed, feeling like it's all too good to be true but my-god-it’s-so-fucking-true— The One’s dress will be on the floor at the foot of your bed. The room will smell like mingled skin. You will roll to her side and whisper good morning into spaces that were once so silent in you, they stung. There will be rainbow glitter on your best wool sweater, and you will never have been happier about anything. You’ve been wound too tight, babe. Been too goddam precise. Trying too fucking hard. Try less. Try less than less. Try not at all. Go ahead it’s alright. Tear yourself apart a little. Push your fingers into the cracks. Rip at the seams. Inhale that good smoke through your mouth. Exhale through the nose. Watch the smoke float on the surface of that medicine. Then drink up— it’ll do you good. You’ll see. Tomorrow’s a new day. — Kate Mapother, Life at the Bottom of the Canyon
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A selection from Philadelphia Freedom, a story from the 100 Stories collection.
“I know she thought he’d call her back, but he didn’t, and I told her he wouldn’t if she was always such a bitch, and she called me a bitch back and smacked me. I heard her crying in her room, and I made sure she heard me, too, so she wasn’t the only one. I thought she might knock later, but she didn’t. It was a really bad night.
That night definitely stuff happened. I remember crying so hard I threw up.”
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