The other morning,

Katrina Kaye

the lilac in the front yard was filled with tiny birds.

Their first feathers still poofing under new coats;
all chirp and chatter in the excitement of learning to fly.

I watched them and their hurry; the exhilaration
of the new. What a lovely song.

There is no point to this story,
other than it made me momentarily happy.

The idea of capture and keepsake never crossed my mind.
There was no lust for ownership or some distortion of permanence.

No, this was just a twinkle;

a lost minute,

slip of seconds,

a glorious moment,

that ended quickly and forever.

 

 

“The other morning,” is previously published by Cajun Mutt Press (2024) and Kelp Journal (2024).

Preservation

Katrina Kaye

Left to myself,

I sink,

and allow eyes to close.

To be

still,

stone,

ever vigilant.

Left to myself,
I will cease to exist
long before death
has the nerve to
visit my doorstep.

But I resist decay
by statuing
against chaos.
I close lips,
but keep eyes peeled.

I listen,

listen,

listen.

I am not
unchanging.
I rattle

back and

forth.

Left to myself,
I will fade
long before the sun
can bleach my bones.

So I protect the beat
of my heart and

feel each
breath fill

the empty cavern
of my being.

I preserve myself.

Hibernation
is not always
about rest;
it is about

 survival.

The only way
to make it to
the next season
is to let this one pass.

Unfinished

Katrina Kaye

there is a trench
dug against my navel

running between breasts
concaves into clavicle

a ravine
through the center of me

this is where
I need to be filled

it doesn’t matter
if it is love that floods the chasm

or pebbles of hope piled
one upon the other

it doesn’t matter if it is a spell
to resurrect the dead,

or songs which conjure oceans
and summon the sun

it could be a list unfinished
a graveyard left to wander

a coda stuck in
my head all morning

the sweetness of sunrise
kaleidoscopes before my eyes

a display against
bare ceiling

it could be anything that is pure
simple and peaceful

it only needs to complete me
fill me, make me whole

but these sentiments are fleeting
and haven’t filled the hollow

I remain gutted
with little hope of being finished