Book Giveaway and Excerpt: Materfamilias

Dear KOM-ers! We’re so happy to feature a new book giveaway!
Please enjoy this excerpt from “Materfamilias” by Kimberly G. Jackson.

There are 2 ways to enter to win your FREE signed copy:

  1. Leave a comment below with your email (so we can contact you)
  2. Email us at KOMWriting@gmail.com with the Subject: Materfamlias giveaway entry

Winner will be selected on 5/3/18 and announced on our website and social media. *

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“Kimberly Gladman Jackson charts her inner journey as a woman, wife, and mother, and engages our senses with the way she experiences the world around her. The personal indeed becomes universal in the hands of this gifted poet.” – Arianna Huffington

The collection of poetry and flash fiction includes reflections on the joys and struggles of parenting and marriage, as well as the search for spiritual meaning and connection in a world torn by political conflict and war. Completed while the author was undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer, it is also a record of creativity emerging from crisis.

Kimberly writes: “I believe that science, psychology, and spirituality are parallel ways of exploring reality, and will ultimately be shown to complement one another.  With “Entanglement,” I explored the idea that what physicists tell us is true on a microscopic scale might also be operating on the level of our lived experience.”

Excerpt: Entanglement

Entangled particles act as if they are one, even when widely separated: anything that affects one, instantaneously affects the other in exactly the same way.  Physicists say it happens all the time. A particle of you, right now, could be entangled with a particle of someone you just passed in the street.

Invisibilia Radio Show

The young woman on the train beside me laughs every so often at something she sees on her smartphone. A quiet laugh, but not private: breathy, and really tickled
brimming with something to share. I want to ask What is it? Wish her face would turn, and open, and she’d say. But the tablet balanced on her tawny knee informs her of the Cold War’s dates (1945-89), while I, shivering in the AC, remember changing dollars for black-market Ostmarks outside the Pergamon. As the skyline grows I wonder: does it swell inside her as it does in me, every time, even now? She laughs that laugh again, and I want to tell her: Someday the person you’re going to marry will think my god, I love the way she laughs. Someday your children’s faces will light up when they hear it–it will make them feel that everything’s all right. But of course I can’t, and don’t, and at the station she is lost beneath the clocks.

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Crowdflow down Fifth Avenue in January wind. Cartier’s, Tiffany’s, then her body’s dark diagonal. Half-wrapped in a shawl, she rocks. Mutters. Bare head/thin shirt/paper cup/so few coins. The stream of coats legs boots arcs, makes a space. I step in. Place a bill. She sees a 5. Are you sure? she says. You might need this money for something.  When I kneel, her hand is leathery. God is with you, I say, though I never believed in him much. She laughs: That’s all I’ve got left. What’s your name? I tell her. Ask for hers.  She tells me, but then the muttering returns. I watch it rock her, draw her in, as the evening snow falls down in searing sheets. When I see a cab, I take it.

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The slam is starting soon and somebody’s taking way too long in the bathroom. The line fidgets. Finally she emerges – halting, then swift – a bare white face with wide eyes almost lashless, a rush of long skirt down the stairs. Later, behind the mike, she reads from a page, her voice clear but just at the threshold of sound. Her words fall, oblique and pearlescent, roll and tumble across the wooden stage until it’s covered with a sheen like the inside of skin. The applause is a puzzled sine wave, but one skinny guy in the back is on his feet hollering, and I shout for her too, praying that the current of our gratitude can reach her, and wondering what it is her long sleeves cover.

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In bed I watch my belly rise and fall. Somewhere, too, their bodies lie or stretch, in pain or joy or longing I can’t know. But as my cells dissolve to molecules and my atoms to their quarks, I feel the pull of what is mine and theirs in one. The darkness widens, curves through spacetime. Together in our separate orbits, we spin.

 

* By entering this contest, you give consent to Kind Over Matter to use your name for promotional purposes on our website and on all social media. 

Kimberly Gladman Jackson is the author of Materfamilias (Tandeta Books, 2018) and Tesseract (Finishing Line Press, 2016).
You can connect with her on her website.

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