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About this poet

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1978. She received a BFA from New York University, where she cofounded the NYC-Urbana Poetry Slam.

She is the author of several poetry collections, including How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018); The Year of No Mistakes (Write Bloody Publishing, 2013), winner of a Book of the Year Award from the Writers’ League of Texas; Everything Is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010); Hot Teen Slut (The Wordsmith Press, 2001); and Dear Future Boyfriend (The Wordsmith Press, 2000).

She is also the author of two books of nonfiction, including Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam (Soft Skull, 2007), which, Billy Collins writes, “leaves no doubt that the slam poetry scene has achieved legitimacy and taken its rightful place on the map of contemporary literature.”

Aptowicz has received an Amy Clampitt Residency and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry
How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018)
The Year of No Mistakes (Write Bloody Publishing, 2013)
Everything Is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010)
Oh, Terrible Youth (The Wordsmith Press, 2007)
Working Class Represent (The Wordsmith Press, 2003)
Hot Teen Slut (The Wordsmith Press, 2001)
Dear Future Boyfriend (The Wordsmith Press, 2000)

Prose
Dr. Mutter’s Marvels: A True Tale of Intrigue and Innovation at the Dawn of Modern Medicine (Penguin, 2014)
Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam (Soft Skull, 2007)

Sleeping in Late with My Mother

She apologizes. It’s not like her. She’s usually up by six.
But it’s the weekend, you tell her, there is no need to rush!

The plan for the day is breakfast somewhere and walking
somewhere else. I’m happy, but Mom can’t believe that

she forgot to bring conditioner, or that she slept so late.
The housekeeper at the discount hotel knocks. We’re still here,

we’re still here!
she shouts back. Girls’ weekend, just us two,
and still we have to remind each other it’s okay to take our time.

No rush, we say to each other, firmly. I’m writing two poems
a day all summer: one every morning and again every night.

It is morning and my mom tells me, Write a poem about this,
but don’t mention I slept in so late! Just put down that your mother

is taking it easy, that your mother is taking her time for once!
So I do
what she says, sort of. And the housekeeper knocks again.

But this time, my mother doesn’t jump. Instead, she leans back,
comfortable, and shouts: Still here, Still here! We are still here!

Copyright © 2018 by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. This poem originally appeared in How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018). Reprinted with permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 2018 by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. This poem originally appeared in How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018). Reprinted with permission of the publisher.

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz  is the author of several poetry collections, including How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018).

by this poet

poem

Turns out things aren’t going that well.
Turns out you wake up and you’re thirty,
and the clothes you are wearing aren’t ironic
anymore. They are the clothes you wear.

One day you wake up, and look in your closet
and realize it is every terrible thing your mother
ever said to you, all

poem

In my defense, my forgotten breasts. In my defense, the hair
no one brushed from my face. In my defense, my hips.

Months earlier, I remember thinking that sex was a ship retreating
on the horizon. I could do nothing but shove my feet in the sand.

I missed all the

poem

ARE YOU DEAD? is the subject line of her email.
The text outlines the numerous ways she thinks
I could have died: slain by an axe-murderer, lifeless
on the side of a highway, choked to death by smoke
since I’m a city girl and likely didn’t realize you needed
to open the chimney