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Karen Harryman KAREN HARRYMAN is the author of Auto Mechanic's Daughter, a collection of poems about place and transition written after she and her new husband quit their jobs and moved from Louisville, Kentucky to Los Angeles with two carloads of belongings. She received her MFA from Antioch Los Angeles in 2003. She has studied poetry and writing with Wendell Berry, Jeffrey Skinner, Sarah Gorham, Eloise Klein Healy, Dorianne Laux, Ellen Bass, Frank Gaspar, Richard Garcia, Cecilia Woloch, Chris Abani, Brian Teare, and Jane Hirshfield, poets and authors who continue to influence her work today. Her poetry and micro-fiction have appeared in Atticus Review, North American Review, New Southerner, Raliegh Review, Forklift, Alaska Quarterly, Verse Daily, The Cortland Review among others. In 2007, Auto Mechanic's Daughter was selected for the Black Goat Poetry Series Imprint with Akashic Books in Brooklyn. Before deciding to stay home and raise two daughters, Karen taught English and Creative Writing for ten years, most recently at YULA, an orthodox Jewish school in West Los Angeles. She was a finalist for the 2015 North American Review Hearst Poetry Prize and the 2015 James Baker Hall Memorial poetry prize sponsored by New Southerner. She is married to Emmy-nominated comedy writer Kirker Butler. They are still in Los Angeles where they continue to raise two young daughters and a very old dog.

Recent Work By Karen Harryman

Hi, Karen. Thanks for taking time to talk to TNB today.

My Pleasure. This is way more fun than what I usually do while my kids are at school.

A grocery store is a good place to hide. Do not underestimate your own resourcefulness, your strength. Comfort one another trapped, away from loved ones, but do not fear your thirst. Work together to see babies again or to avenge their deaths. If the zombies find you, bash their slack-mouthed heads against linoleum tile with five-gallon bottles of Tide, gouge the brain with beer bottles and broom handles. Barricade! Barricade! Barricade! with fifty-pound bags of dog food. Do not use sides of beef obviously or shopping carts which roll. Unfurl and plaster aluminum foil over windows until it’s gone. In a pinch, find the picnic supplies and un-fold all the paper tablecloths. Hang them over the long windows in double layers with packing tape from the stationery aisle. If you make it through the night, avoid using the P.A. to rally those left among you, as zombies have keen hearing. Instead, a crude telephone, something like you and your cousin devised, when you were kids, decades ago and far away from the city, with empty soup cans and long, long string and bunkers of unfathomable time.