Arrival

Keetje Kuipers The streets were glass, the cars and salt-bellied trucks slid across them—perfect pirouettes until the light’s red. Beyond the frosted windows were the animals, and beyond the animals silence, baled hay like spools of thread scattered by a careless hand. In the next season would I become just one more hillside of purple… More

My brother says my milk smells different

Keetje Kuipers Meaning different from his wife’s, meaning a melody all my own, playing in my body like the song the headphoned girl on the bus mouths the words to—silent for the rest of us, a tune only when we press her lips to our ear. A friend stored her milk in a humming freezer,… More

Snow Day with Baby

Keetje Kuipers We make an exploration of pans—the six inch round I use for yogurt cake, the bundt for kahlua pound—fill them with soapy water and dive whisks into bubbles, the dog skittering away. When lunch time comes, I remember my father, a revelation as he turned from the oven one winter day with plates… More