by Katy Hackworthy

and mountains melt like rock candy

on a windowsill. The baker, soft as brioche,

places muffins in a manger

while tourists hibernate in overpriced B&B’s

and locals settle for cold cereal and coffee.

Saggy eyed but eager, we pause to pluck

sticky buns, nuts for me, raisins for you, from

peony-pocked baskets peeking out behind

the baker’s hefty arm. What’s the point

of growing up if you can’t have dessert

for breakfast on a school day?

We sit outside a bookstore with an orange cat

nestled on the windowsill. I tell you about the time

I tried to walk off with a picture book, and the owner

sent me home with a soft caramel and stern smile

instead. I can almost smell the abandoned aisles

from here, if not for butter and brown sugar clinging

to my chin, fingers, hair. The morning is damp,

but our breathing is freer here than at home, this new

horizon snow capped and forgiving. I think about

being alone with you in this place where

no one knows us, about how maybe today

things will be different, but we aren’t alone

and I don’t do well with change.

A woman crosses the street without looking both ways,

arms outstretched, pace urgent. With the small twinkle

of a bell, the baker seems to fly in a flurry of sugar

and sweat, and they embrace. I wish I could’ve seen

the woman’s face buried in the baker’s arms, oven-warm

and bursting. It occurs to me I’m not brave

like this woman in the purple raincoat, like this baker

with the pillow cheeks. I haven’t met love yet, my world

too small, my walls too tall, but I recognize it

this morning in a place where the only sounds

come from the corners of our mouths and the scratchy hum

of someone’s radio down the street.

A CONVERSATION WITH KATY HACKWORTHY ON PEACE, POETRY, AND WRITING “IT’S 6AM”

Rebecca Mennecke: Your stunning poem in Issue 3 of Barstow and Grand is titled “It’s 6AM,” so I have to ask: did you actually write it at 6am? Where did you find your inspiration? 

Katy Hackworthy: Well, first of all, shucks! Second of all, I didn’t write the poem at 6am, but I did take inspiration from the wonder and peace I feel when I experience sunrise in a new place – especially somewhere situated in nature. There’s something about how early morning air has the ability to saturate the rest of the day with possibility when experienced under the right circumstances. (Running across “the bridge” at UWEC for a 7am in the dead of winter would not be one of those circumstances). 

RM: You start off your poem with some killer imagery: “mountains melt like rock candy / on a windowsill” and then continue it throughout: “pluck / sticky buns, nuts for me, raisins for you,” “soft caramel and stern smile,” “horizon snow capped and forgiving,” “flurry of sugar and sweat,” “purple raincoat,” and “pillow cheeks.” Your observance of the world around you really comes through your poem. What catches your eye and makes you want to put it to paper? 

KH: I’m drunk in love with the way the combination of our senses dictate our experience of the world, and I always let that infatuation drive the imagery in my writing. I gain a great deal of inspiration from nature, but I’m mindful of letting that stray into pastoral territory, and I instead strive to guide people to a moment of peace in the poem where they can allow the bounty of noise, smell, taste, etc. wash over them. In addition to my love of the natural world, observing how people interact in intimate moments always makes me grab frantically for a pen. Coffee shops and hiking trails are where I find my writer-self most stimulated. 

RM: Everything about this poem feels soothing and calming. How do you capture that mood in your writing? And, where do you go to find a piece of this calmness? 

KH: When I think of my writing style, and this poem in particular, it involves a lot of breath work. If I imagine myself in the poem, and take a deep breath, I can smell the bakery, the sharp morning air coming off the mountain, the damp sidewalk. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the intense sweetness of carmel, sticky buns, the possibility of a kiss. I want people to read my poetry and slow down, letting those sensations we take for granted consume them, even if only for a few moments. Now, if I situate myself in this poem, I’m instantly brought back to the sense of peace and possibility writing it gave me at a time of immense transition in my life, and that’s a wonderful thing. When I’m craving calmness, I gravitate towards nature, particularly the Northwoods where I grew up spending a great deal of time with family at my grandparents’ cottage, which comes up often in my work. 

RM: In your Volume One article, “Feeling Write at Home,” you write, “Sharing art is an effective bridge to sharing other, more intimate parts of ourselves.” Is it ever hard for you to share early drafts of your work—pieces of literature that might be especially close to your heart? Do you have any advice for being open about your writing — and especially when it comes to receiving tough feedback? 

KH: While I consider myself to be an open-hearted person, it’s often difficult for me to articulate my most vulnerable experiences, and creating and sharing art are the ways I feel comfortable expressing those intimate parts of myself. I challenge myself to share the things that may be the hardest for me as a way to create space for others to do the same. I’m often emboldened and deeply moved by the open-hearted art of others, and I believe in the power of community building around those shared experiences. I’ll be frank, ya’ll-tough feedback is essential to growth both as humans and as creators, and I don’t believe any art, however personal or open, should be exempt from a critical eye, especially through a workshop or publishing lens. That being said, you get to decide how much emotional labor you’re willing to exert when you share your art. You don’t owe anybody anything, and sometimes just letting yourself work through something through your art is enough. Be kind to yourself! 

RM: Who are some of the people who inspire and mentor you and your creativity? 

KH: My peers in the writing community constantly inspire me, especially local poets/best pals Mary Shaw and Alexander Zitzner. They challenge me in ways that are helpfully frustrating and push me out of my comfort zone, and seeing them work through the same things is deeply comforting. Working with Nick Butler, however briefly, has inspired growth in my writing style and perspective, and Allyson Loomis’ creative and personal support has meant the world to me over the years. 

RM: Do you have any mottos when it comes to writing? 

KH: I wish I could say something like, “Write 30 minutes a day,” or claim to have a method I stick to, but, to be quite honest, I find it difficult to cultivate a consistent writing practice, especially in the winter (bitter cold + minimal sun = seasonally depressed, uninspired Katy). If I had to say one, I’d say “don’t force it” – I find the most inspiration when I’m not creating space for the process, and it’s more exciting that way. 

RM: What books are you currently reading?

KH: I always have a rotation going, usually a novel or short story collection, essay collection, memoir, and poetry collection. Right now I just finished The First Bad Man by Miranda July, and I’ve been picking up Homie by Danez Smith and The Book of Delights by Ross Gay almost daily to fuel my faith in art and humanity. I’m also devouring Burn the Place by Iliana Regan, a breathtaking memoir that has me seriously considering abandoning everything and moving out to the woods for good. 

RM: Do you have any advice for people who would like to be in the next issue of Barstow and Grand? 

KH: Honestly, just submit! It’s a small act of artistic courage that also supports your community, which is arguably the most compelling argument to submit to any small press. Our literary community is as vivacious as it is because of the volume of folx who engage with it – let’s keep the momentum going! 

If you’re interested in submitting poetry to Barstow and Grand, check out their submission information here!