She sings

Katrina Kaye

in the bath
not the shower

her showers are too quick
splash, dash done

but in the bath
she lingers

and she sings

she is an exquisite singer
not because she can
carry a tune

she can’t

but after two glasses
of wine she doesn’t try

she sings the words she knows
and makes up the ones she doesn’t

it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t stop her

she sings,
not like no one is listening,
but like everyone is

she sings like the world is dangling
on her every word

she sings like she has a song
buried inside her and it is

now

finding its way to the surface

she sings like she is not just being heard
but understood for the first time

she sings

in the bath
when there is time and echo

she sings and it is beautiful

In the painting,

Katrina Kaye

the girl meanders through golden hills
at the magic hour in July. She is falling in love with a boy

she met earlier that day, and there is a song playing,
familiar, yet the words are all new.

It’s all an illusion,
an ideal frozen to canvas with acyclic and water
pressed into an idea of perfection.

The playful daydreams of a California girl who
only knew what she didn’t want
but doesn’t know the words for what she does.

And here I am,
at 7:51 pm on a Thursday
practicing saying I am what I am and that is enough.

As if I don’t have better things to say in my sleep.
As if speaking the words made them true.