After the Circus

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

the heat of the day left with the sun
but the earth still hums with warmth 

this is how to ascend
not with fireworks

but with breath

not with certainty

but with hope 

and I 

 (despite the dirt sulked in the creases of bare feet
despite the burn scar that  gently tints my body in ash) 

I am able to exist underneath a sky 
bursting with stars over the tops of tall trees
that sway, a gentle back and forth, 

 these are metaphors of connections never rationalized
a foreshadow of the time I too will give back to the earth 

and I am eager to rebuild 
not with bricks

but with memory

not with mortar

but with mourning 

I am fresh and unsoiled,
comforted in being so close to the earth 

October

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Like any good fortune teller, I know when the leaves will start to fall. After all, prophets are really just people who pay attention, and after 45 years I’ve started to catch on to the comings and goings of this world. The light and the dark, the heat and the cold. I know it’s too early for the heaters – still another week or so until I can truly find comfort in my wool sweater and fuzzy slippers. But the cold will come, first in the dark of night, then spreading into the morning, until it eventually embraces the day, clinging to the earth under the bright of winter sun.

By now, I am used to the cycle of the seasons. By now, I can predict the fullness and emptiness of the moon. By now, I should anticipant my mood swings, know when the pills stop working, have an innate knowledge of when my body needs a fast, a night in, a few hours of solitude. By now, I should be able to know how to take care of all that I need.  The trees have it down; their wardrobes already picked out for the fall, the winter, the spring, and eventual return to summer – and repeat and repeat and repeat.

Reminding

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

When I met you, I fell in love 
with flight, with candle light, 
and open windows. From the safety  

of your late lit bedroom, 
I watched rain as it ate the earth, 
leaving soft teeth marks  

in the dirt of your gardens. I hear 
the moths come every seven years, 
but sometimes it seems  

like they are always here, flittering 
against door frame in praise 
of porch light. We don’t always  

  forget the way we are supposed to, 
nor do we remember the way 
the seasons would like us  

to believe. I crawled upon your hand 
on fine legs, wing brushing palm, 
steadying myself as you peered  

through the brown spots on my wings. 
You did not crush me or push me 
away. My wings against  

your open hand; you let me stay 
as long as I needed, did not protest 
when I took again to the air.  

I can’t remember why I loved you 
but I can’t forget that I did. 
It’s been over twenty years  

since you slapped into my screen door 
In all those years you always made me  
feel loved, noble, worthy  

just by meeting my gaze. 
It has been six years since 
you died, but I swear I have seen  

the moths more than once since then. 
They flutter on the window beside 
my late-night lingering, reminding me  

of the early hours we shared 
before the sun approached. We had 
our season; nothing left unsaid or undone.  

  Soon the moths will return, 
reminding me that you were once 
a light I could not resist.  

“Reminding” is previously published in Pa’lante (2022).

 

Find this poem and many others in my most recent collection: All It Is.

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