Ghoti Magazine

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Miriam Kotzin teaches literature and creative writing at Drexel University where she directs the Certificate Program in Writing and Publishing.

In 2004 two of herpoems were nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her poems and short stories have appeared in many publications including Boulevard (for which she is a contributing editor), The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Frigg Magazine, Shampoo Poetry, Small Spiral Notebook, Smoke Long Quarterly, Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, Carve and Fiction Warehouse.

She also writes fiction with Bill Turner, and their work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines such as Hobart, Monkey Bicycle, Dogwood Journal, Amarillo Bay, Thieves Jargon, Somewhat and Admit Two.

- Miriam Kotzin
	Should, Shouldn't “People who feed songbirds shouldn't keep cats,” Franny said as I drove, “especially, feed strays.” I heard our mother's tone in her voice, and I was amused because Franny had been resentful of being given instruction. When we were teenagers she'd sit on her bed in our room and chant, “Should, shouldn't, shit.” “Shh, Franny,” I'd say, “She'll hear you, and we'll both get in trouble.” “Are you telling me I should shut up?” “I'm saying that if you don't shush we'll get both in trouble, that's all.” Somehow we never did. Not for that. We caught it for the usual: undone chores, curfew violations, when the neighbors called the cops because we gave a loud party the one time our mother left us home alone for a weekend. “I guess I can't leave you two alone after all,” she'd said, her voice a mixture of anger and frustration. Much later I realized that she was chiding herself as well. And now Franny was telling me how to live. “Should, shouldn't, shit,” I said. “You know I'm right,” Franny said, and then she told me how the cat would leap up on the terra cotta bird bath and break it. I began chanting Franny's, “Should, shouldn't, shit.” She told me how the cat would get the baby finches in the nest on the lamp next to the front door. I chanted louder. She told me about the presents the cat would bring, the tribute of the half-dead mouse or, she said, practically shouting now, the wounded bird. I chanted louder still. “Someday you'll see,” she said, “You'll see I was right. You'll learn the hard way, and you'll be sorry.” I kept on chanting Franny's teenage chant; in response she kept on scolding, warning me with mounting frustration. I kept on chanting to hear the echo of our mother's voice fill the car. In her lap, Franny held two beautiful stones. It was our first time like this, the two of us alone, going to visit her grave.
		_________________________________________________________________ Miriam Kotzin teaches literature and creative writing at Drexel University where she directs the Certificate Program in Writing and Publishing. In 2004 two of herpoems were nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her poems and short stories have appeared in many publications including Boulevard (for which she is a contributing editor), The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Frigg Magazine, Shampoo Poetry, Small Spiral Notebook, Smoke Long Quarterly, Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, Carve and Fiction Warehouse. She also writes fiction with Bill Turner, and their work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines such as Hobart, Monkey Bicycle, Dogwood Journal, Amarillo Bay, Thieves Jargon, Somewhat and Admit Two.