three sisters

Katrina Kaye

three girls,
kittens playing
with string

the oldest
blue eyes
splatter of
freckles against
high cheek bones,
laughs as she
pulls yarn from ball

her sister,
the second
brown curls,
over brown skin,
catches a piece
ties it off
never lets it
get too long

the small one,
black hair
black eyes,
doesn’t say much,
sits in the corner
her mother’s
brass shears

“three sisters” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).


Katrina Kaye

if the storm did come,
i fear my first
instinct would be
to walk to the apex
bold and frenzied

my streets have been
dry for too long
leaving me desperate
to stand in the rain

i would trade my sight
for the scent of distant

my taste for the prickle
of hair twirled
in every direction.

i have prayed
for destruction.

but what do i know?

my mother was never
ripped into the sky
by unruly clouds,
my house never blown
down despite the coyotes
that surround back door
i have never wakened
to shattered glass
underneath my morning feet.

why should i distress of the
wrath of weather when my
New Mexican sky is endless blue
my sun bright enough i see
only red in the darkness.

i want the storm,
the wind, the water,
i want to be ravaged by the
wrath of unkind gods.

i know this wish
may not be kind

threats of storms ravage
those who prefer to hold tight
to rock and earth
and toss bodies
like crumpled paper
hoping to cling
on to abandoned words.

i have not felt
that windfall, and
i do not seek to
inhabit the pain
of the others

but i can’t
help but to search the sky for
gathering clouds and sit pale in the
wind hoping for the sky to crack.

“Crack” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2020).

Person at the Window

Katrina Kaye

inspired by Salvador Dali

He always painted her by a window.
A gold thread woven by her brother’s careful hand.

Thin curtains, like the inventions of monsters,
oscillate on either side of her in the breeze like
patient lovers and little ashes.

Amidst sand and gravel glued to canvas,
sways the finery of the broken bridge of a dream.
She stands untouched wrapped in the purity of white
and the blue of a sublime sky shimmering off of the sea.

She holds the skin of orchestras in the head of roses
and picks petals from trembling piano keys.
A symphony in red performed by instruments
birthed on liquid desires.

She remains a meditative rose,
forever at Spanish window ledge,
a faceless dream triggered by the flight of a bee
around a pomegranate one second before waking up.

Previously Published in Vermilion Literary Magazine (2022).