My Work.
My first full-length collection of poems--Comestibles--was published in April of 2021 through Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf & Stock. wipfandstock.com/9781725295971/comestibles/ Other Publications: "Be Both," Triggerfish Critical Review, Jan. 2021 https://triggerfishcriticalreview.com/be-both-kate-burnaham/ "Voting Demographics in 2020 A.D.," Poets Reading the News, Sept. 2019 www.poetsreadingthenews.com/2019/09/voting-demographics-in-2020-a-d/ "English Campaign for the Sciences," Literary Orphans, Jan. 2019 www.literaryorphans.org/playdb/english-campaign-for-the-sciences-by-kate-burnham/ https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=H9MMPWiZOCQ "Lapdog," Pindeldyboz, May 2009 theliteraryunderground.org/pindeldyboz/kblapdog.html Editorial Experience: West Trade Review, June-Dec. 2020, Assistant Poetry Editor Poets Reading the News, Jan. 2020-June 2020, Assistant Editor Murray Life Magazine, Sept. 2013-Feb. 2016, Managing Editor New Madrid Journal, Fall 2015, Student Editor Selected Poems from Comestibles: Never Be afraid to leap, fail, or fall hard, my only son. You will anyway. Never fear to spit it out-- the truth—but don’t forget to swallow pride and bitterness, regurgitating joy. Don’t be shy to wear your hair down to your ankles or so high and tight your scalp shines through. Don’t dress to impress anyone except your own skin. Don’t fear to wear as many colors on your face as you feel thrumming in your chest, see reflected in the eyes of people who don’t love you. Don’t hesitate to love at all, because it’s likely life will leave you parched for its reciprocating quench. Don’t be afraid to lose everything. You will anyway. Wake up each day afraid not to end it satisfied with your struggle. If you didn’t smile, weep, or scream in ecstasy or agony, you probably did it wrong. But no surprise—you’ll do it wrong. Screw up in rainbows. Never be the version of yourself that someone else paints for you. That’s your job, your signature, your mortal right. I doubt this is your 777th reincarnation, and so this is your first and only chance to be the flower, most beautiful just before wilting. Never be afraid to die—you will anyway, my only son. youtu.be/ffVmThr3Qfs Sleeping It Off Wiping snot and tears from my face with a corner of my infant son’s onesie—the reverse of a mother offering the sleeve of her blouse, a makeshift handkerchief. Singing: suckle, suckle cuddle, cuddle nap, nap sleepy sleep . . . Napping with newborn to escape depression-- the non-postpartum variety. When he goes down, I go down, singing: suckle, suckle cuddle, cuddle nap, nap sleepy sleep . . . Can’t conjure the happiness my body needs to lift through exhaustion as heavy as deceit. Weight of loving an absent father is crushing confessions out of me that I don’t even mean. Keep singing: suckle, suckle cuddle, cuddle nap, nap sleepy sleep . . . I whisper-sing this song to him-- needing to be held the way I hold my son, like a mother or God holds what is most precious and doomed to live. youtu.be/FQbp6wK1IbQ Happy Birthday Boy the waiters sing a song to my son wearing his tiny sombrero-- not “Happy Birthday” something about all the beautiful girls flock to him he’s one year old his beautiful father has not flocked in from Florida to sing-- he’s hiding under his wife’s skirt a baby chick chirping bullshit about the sky falling if she only knew he’d been cocking around How long have you known Bob? wife-mother clucks a tongue hen-pecked paterfamilias doesn’t know his/my son, Bob, at all birthday boy smiles refried beans spilling from the corners of his mouth joyous and carefree at being sung to by anyone, and who needs a Dad when you have a song to sing? muchachas bonitas vos aqui el rompe los corazones youtu.be/HSU9EG268eE |