Kat Lehmann
She Lives in the Town Where Her Car Broke Down
I offer to take her bag of empty cans to the recycling bin. She declines quietly, her brown eyes assessing me. I move on. I know the script.
all the stars
There’s a plate of pretzels on the floor near the bag of empty cans. It appears to be food for an animal, but she doesn’t have cats anymore. And cats don’t eat pretzels. I offer to discard the pretzels before they draw pests. She responds with the same steady, knowing gaze.
all the stars beyond
She speaks, perhaps deciding for a moment she can trust me with the truth. Maybe I’m not a spy after all? The cans let me know when the man breaks in. I sleep on the couch so I can hear him. My bedroom walls are loud with people talking inside them anyway. And the pretzels are on the floor in case he gets hungry.
all the stars beyond belief
About the Author
Kat Lehmann is a founding co-editor of whiptail: journal of the single-line poem. She serves on the panel for The Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Distinguished Book Awards. Kat lives on the edge of a Connecticut forest, where she is captivated by the grandiose within the details. katlehmann.weebly.com.
Nice work Kat. Took my breath away. Way familiar. Pitched perfectly.
Thanks so much, Ron. Sorry that this is familiar to you too.
Kat, a very sad but beautiful telling of a story and a life. I love the way the haiku lines build with the building of the story.
Thanks for noticing that, Anette. I’m glad it was effective for you. Yes, it’s a sad story, but I hope it honors her experience.