DOWNTOWN L.A.

by Katie Kemple

A woman asks me how 

to find Hope Street. 

I'm not sure, I say. Maybe 

around the corner? The rest 

of the week Hope Street 

startles me. Finds me 

when I least expect it. 

On the walk to the library. 

After dinner with college 

roommates. At the end 

of my volunteer shift. 

The sign towers over me. 

You have to look up to 

see it. The font confident 

we will find our way.  

Katie Kemple is the author of Big Man (Chestnut Review Chapbooks, 2025). Her work has been curated by Frontier, Plougharers, and Rattle (Poets Respond). 

CHAPTER 11: THE SHRIMP WINS

by Katie Kemple

Red Lobster filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy last week citing $1 billion in debt, according to court filings. The announcement comes after a disastrous 2023 endless shrimp promotion in which, for around $20, patrons could order as much shrimp as they wanted, prompting eating challenges by users of TikTok. But while it brought customers to stores, it also put the chain $11 million in the red. —Vox, May 26, 2024

Who knew Red Lobster could be undone 
by its small cousin? TikTokers gone wild 
eating 70 shrimp at a time. Everyone 
desperate for a deal anywhere we can find 
it. All-you-can-eat-shrimp a sort of shrink-
flation in reverse. As our dreams squeezed 
shrimp size. Smaller houses. Apartments. 
We don't own them. Freelance gig status. 
No benefits. Red Lobster underestimated 
how desperately the rest of us needed that 
20-buck offer. We ate the chain out from 
under her majestic claws. Loved her too hard. 
Cracked her so humbly. She never saw it 
coming. Like that time, we borrowed my 
aunt's kayak, and her neighbor let us pull 
their lobster trap. How it tasted within 
the hour, boiled and full of ocean. How 
we cracked it and shared bites between 
the four of us. The best deal ever. I wore 
those lobster leggings. The seafood lover 
in me, loving the serendipity. The trap, 
the chain, in full view, we knew what we 
were doing, the freedom of it. The feeling 
we'd stepped outside of the capital, not
targets or markets. Not eating a commodity.

Katie Kemple is a poet based in Southern California.

WINTER BREAK

by Katie Kemple

On my Instagram feed, one family

posts smiling photos from ski slopes,

snowy white backgrounds that match

perfect teeth. Another family travels

to a tropical paradise: bikinis, blue

waters and palm trees. And then, a

photo of a family packing their car

trunk in Kramatorsk, Ukraine. Coats

on and loading plastic bags of their

belongings. What to leave? Baby teeth,

cleats, a wedding dress. The oven's

set to nothing for the winter. The clock

goose steps the seconds forward.

Each last look like a photo now,

the kind on film with limited takes. 

Katie Kemple's poems have appeared in recent issues of Atlanta Review, Ligeia Magazine, and The Shore. 

STRIKE

by Katie Kemple

We placed the blue trash can

and the green recycling bin

filled with the detritus

leading up to Christmas

in front of our townhouse

garage, like we always do,

and our neighbors too, and

they stayed there, all the way up to

and well past Christmas,

past New Years. The brown

cardboard boxes of mail-ordered

gifts stuck their tongues out

at us, papers glued like stickers

to the pavement courtesy

of the rain, and the sanitation

drivers never came. The neighbors

built cities of empty boxes.

Shrimp skins haunted us.

We wore yesterday's diapers.

The CEO of the sanitation

company makes 154 times

the pay of his average employee:

twelve-million dollars a year. 

Crows swung down to feast

on the new year's abundance. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet, parent, and consultant based in San Diego. Her work has appeared recently in Longleaf Review, The West Review, and The Shore Poetry. 

AFTER THE SUPREME COURT HEARS TESTIMONY ABOUT MISSISSIPPI’S LEGISLATION RESTRICTING A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO CHOOSE

by Katie Kemple

Cartoon by Walt Handelsman, The Advocate

I dream I’m in an auditorium about to see

a show. To the far left, in the dark, sits

Gloria Steinem, her signature straight

hair beneath the twin stems of her aviator

glasses, so calm and beautiful. Even the host

makes eyes at her, tries to grab her attention.

On stage, they roll out a gurney, the lower

half of a woman’s body. I can't see her face.

Others gather around—men from all over

the world, a type of ceremony. I find

my mother and sit behind her, slide

my arm through the space between chairs

to interlock fingers with her. I whisper:

"Gloria is here." But my mother has been

dead for seven years. I'm afraid of what

we're about to see. It's so dark. I can't see. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) writes to make sense of the world. Her work has appeared recently on Longleaf Review, Matter, and The West Review.

TOUGH LOVE

by Katie Kemple

Illustration by Chelsea Charles for The Washington Post

Product of flesh, moldable 

robot, we blank out

your name, hide your limbs 

in a cross, until your head 

can’t hold itself up anymore. 

You fucked-up. That’s why 

we come for you at 3am, 

tell you to get dressed, 

handcuff your spoiled wrists, 

escort you to our car. 

Your parents watch. 

They hired us. In America, 

our tax dollars fund it.

Through the rear-view

mirror, I see you trying 

to memorize the route. 

Don’t bother. The place 

we’re going, you won’t 

get out. We strip you naked, 

yell: “cough!” You do it. 

We probe the secrets 

of your body. No drugs 

in your cavities. Prepare to rot, 

bitch. Now get going, 

I say: “git!” Your walls 

are concrete. The women 

have pressed the white sheets 

of the last girl. The one 

who turned herself into 

a scarecrow. Yours now, 

sleep. Rest your eyelid 

on the stain of her 

slutty-blue mascara. 

Author's Note: This poem is in response to Rachel Aviv’s New Yorker article “The Shadow Penal System For Struggling Kids” (October 18) and Paris Hilton’s Washington Post op-ed “America’s ‘troubled teen industry’ needs reform so kids can avoid the abuse I endured” (October 18). Both articles detail toxic, cult-like organizations that trap unsuspecting youth into a shadow penal system. Once surrendered by their parents, it’s nearly impossible for victims to escape. These companies come for children at night, subject them to strip searches, and inflict psychologically damaging treatments under the guise of "tough love". There are no laws to protect minors in the custody of these groups. In fact, they receive state and federal funds for their services. 

Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet, parent, and consultant  in San Diego, CA. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Atlanta Review, Longleaf Review, Matter, Lunch Ticket (Amuse-Bouche), and Anti-Heroin Chic.