Voice

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

My speech once
shuddered inside me:

a tornado siren,

a wail through my gut,

but whatever echoed
faded fast.

There was a time
I was loud,

each word scorching
the tenor of the last.

Now
my voice has subdued.

Now
I skirt the floor
with the debris of

old love poems,

unkept promises,

curse words.

I no longer
spiral pronunciations
around tongue
but let sound idle.

Where did my voice go?

Voice needs room to grow
and a space to share.

Voice needs to
cling to the octaves of
rib cage and swing

and scream and hold tight,
and not be surprised
when the waves buck us
from our feet.

“Voice” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens, September 2020.

Better Option

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I’ve been too gentle with the removal
of dust and filth and discoloration.

Water doesn’t cleanse the way it used to.
The dirt remains and darkens into stain.

Water is not enough.
Fire may be the better option.

Instead of attempting to scrub my soul
of its various colors, it may be better to

burn it to ash, turn the solid to smoke,
and when all that is left is scorched and brittle,

the wind can aid in the
scattering of what remains.

Empty

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

There is a crack inside me

impossible to see         with the naked eye
because it is covered               with flesh and bone,

muscle and vein,

but underneath
all the intricacies         that have made up
this form there is         a vacant space,

a hollow.

There was a time                     I rushed to fill it
to store
people and places        and simple memories.

There was a time         when the emptiness terrified me.

People should not have                       holes.
Are we not made

            of solid stuff?

But I have made peace           with the void within.

I am no longer             afraid of the echo
of my voice.
I no longer                   seek to be filled.

Instead I sit quiet        and cross legged

feeling the shelter

that comes

from nothingness.

Within that hollow,

I can allow      my eyes           to close

and my pulse                           to slow.
I can breathe deep and be;

exist,                continue.

I can find                                peace.
I am not

limited by                    my body

or the emptiness it holds.

“Empty” is previously published in Metonym Journal (2024).