Katrina Kaye

You didn’t leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
grandmother’s watch, told me
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn’t fit your slim wrists,
said, it would look better on me.

When I pointed out that it no
longer worked, you shrugged and
said simply, “time is a silly thing.”

You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp. Your mother
decided on the closed casket.

At your funeral, I stand
consumed by the list of things I
didn’t know, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.

“Continuance” is previously published in To Anyone Who Ever Loved a Writer (2014) and Fevers of the Mind (2021).


Katrina Kaye

I dig for you,
not easy to find
but you are there.

I dress in you,
not as warm as I remember.
Your scent changed.

No longer the person I knew,
but you, nonetheless,

and it is enough.

I recognize the
rough of jawline,
the tenderness in
the touch of hands

a piece of you
pacifies the savior
I could not be.

I cannot unearth you.

A little soap and water
rinses dirt from body.

Yet, I continue to
create burrows

digging for all
I cannot
leave buried.

“Dig” is previously published in Mollyhouse (2022).


Katrina Kaye

allow eyes to rest
press palms against
closed lids and exhale

hold breath

allow silence
release time

feel the bruises on
knees and the scab

on earlobe

trace the residue of memories
that have quicksanded
through cold hands

let the mind rest
try to forgive

embrace only
the streak of now

a  bird sings and the sun
insists on the slow drag
toward tomorrow

take time
to clean hands
and cross fingers

promise better

in the
last moments
of today

“today” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2021).