Kim Chinquee's eleventh book Octopus Arms was published in spring 2026 with MadHat Press. She's the recipient of three Pushcart Prizes, senior editor of New World Writing Quarterly, prose editor of Midwest Review, and an associate professor at SUNY-Buffalo State. She lives with her three dogs in Western New York. For more about Kim, visit her website at www.kimchinquee.com.
The baby was born without joints. She was like a gumby, her limbs miraculous until the miracles stopped happening. She couldn’t play basketball, for instance, because her geometry was off. She was good at other things, like catering to other people’s feelings. Like maybe another student wasn’t good at math, or maybe another walked like a stick. She had a… Read more →
At a nature writing workshop, I confessed I didn’t like birds. They can prey onto a head. Their beaks are pointy, and they make weird noises. They seem so unclean. It’s nice to see them in the sky with wings. I like to fly. I like to get on airplanes. Sometimes, when I run, I put my arms out. Birds… Read more →
for Ross Gay Sitting at the stoplight, I watch the clouds move, wishing I was somewhere out in nature: the park, the woods, the childhood farm where I grew up, where I used to spread on my back on the grass with my sister and look up, naming clouds, in all their shapes and sizes. It’s a cold day, wet,… Read more →
I get on a ladder and pick the crabapples from my tree, put them in my bucket. There are way more than I’ll know what to do with, but I figure I’ll find recipes, maybe do some canning. I’m not really into jam, but I imagine being creative, filling pretty jars with fancy covers and giving them as gifts for… Read more →
On the train ride home, I fall asleep and dream of eagles taking over the farm where I grew up, letting the cows loose and they roam. My family evacuates our home, and then we’re riding past a brushfire in a convertible bus until there is a roadblock. Peach trees talk to me, saying, Find your way. Bristlecone trees wave,… Read more →
It wasn’t your fault the door wouldn’t lock. It wasn’t your fault you loved your dogs so much you hugged them where they lived in the barn, then you got spanked because of bringing in the dog hair. It wasn’t your fault you turned purple–bruised–because your dad got mad, because you didn’t un-peel an orange right. It wasn’t your fault… Read more →