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.

Click here to order.

Patience

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I lost Patience,
or maybe she ran away.
Glory knows, I haven’t been
giving her the attention or
the praise she deserves,

and it’s been a minute
since I listened to her advice
with anything more than the practiced
active listening skills I learned
while bartending in my twenties.

Last I saw,
she was sitting alone at the table near the door,
shifting her eyes between empty glass and open door.

She’s not there now. Perhaps she
just needed a minute to straighten her backbone
and remember her composure. Perhaps
she will be back, but it seems unlikely.

And I admit:

disappearing has always been
more than an impressive trick;
it is a necessity,
right up there with invisibility.

She helped me learn both
once upon a time.

So let her have the rest of the night off.
I hope she went home early
to beat the traffic. Maybe she wasn’t
too tired to wash her face and indulged
in a hot shower.  Maybe she’ll read a
chapter or at least a poem or two
and with any luck, she’ll fall asleep easy
and warm and oh so very relieved.