Author: Champagne E Girten

Champagne enjoys poetry, fiction, law, politics, popcorn, bubble wrap, coffee, wine, and naps. She is endlessly introspective and often outgoing, and has found the weather in the Pacific Northwest most agreeable for that. A recovering attorney who spent a decade representing underprivileged children, Ms. Girten is now a freelance grant writer, and sometimes commits poetry and fiction.



There is an imposter in my home

and yet, not quite

and no one will speak of it

but everyone knows,

the chill in the November air creeping into hearth and home and heart and head.


There is an imposter in my home

this is not my kin

and yet, in a certain slant of late afternoon winter sun

even I would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.


There is an imposter in my home,

sitting at our table just slightly out of place

not quite understanding our tales and jokes and customs

a beat too slow on the uptake

everyone notices, and no amount of heat from the Christmas stew can warm us.


There is an imposter in my home

her giddiness is forced

and yet, not laced with enough sadness to make her real,

to make her one of us,

And yet, whoever placed her here made her so carefully, so lovingly, and just for me

I never had such a gift in all my years

Is there warmth creeping into my heart in the depth of midwinter?


There is an imposter in my home

wrong, yes, but sweet in her own way

and she tries so hard to be what she is not

and yet no one else sees the effort, only the blank January spaces

where once our kin resided.


There is an imposter in my home

and yet, she is not unknown to me

my kin is beyond my grasp

But her imposter tugs at my skirt, my arms, my heart

There is an imposter in my home,

and yet, there is not.

I look this changeling in the eye

and accept her at my breast


My child is home.