Month: November 2023

Slice of Thigh

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Your hand loitered too long
against the scar on my thigh.
A slim trench of fluttered skin
hidden in the darkness of our bed.

I felt the graze of fingertips
skulk back and forth
as you became aware
of wrinkled depression,
a gash healed over with tender tissue,
not forgotten, and never mentioned.

You stumbled upon secret slice
as sharp as emerging tooth,
as though neglected stretch of skin
remained hungry and eager
for the affection of fingers.

You, with your stubborn curiosity,
said no words, only replied
in soft caress. You lingered
over this mark as though trying
to heal it with the heat of your hand,
lending the question as to whether it is something
you love or long to erase.

“Slice of Thigh” is previously published in Open Minds Quarterly (2022).

Rosemary

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember.

remember me

when you least
expect it

in the scent
of rosemary

and
the red of eyelids
closed
to the sun

and I will
remember you

scrawled
in cursive on
forearm

in the
tender spot
where the sun
never reaches

isn’t that
what we all
want?

the best parts
of us
to stay alive

in the hearts of
those we love

our words
remembered

hummed like
lullaby

tasted like
salvation

“Rosemary” is previously published in The Green Shoe Sanctuary (2022).

Soundtrack

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

You prefer to listen to my soundtrack:

my sigh at your touch,
the chords of gasp curse moan prayer,
the rhythm of my laughter.

The pulse of your lips on bare shoulder
sends a harmony throughout my body.

I continue to interlace my notes with yours,
eager to wrap my coda around you,
hold you tight inside this melody of morning.

I purr for you,
a vibration between skin and bone.
The treble of your embrace hums
inside the length of my octave.

It’s a tempo in my shoulder blades,
the meter in a Monday morning
and a half night’s sleep,
residing in the throat of me.

I hold my song still,
take my heart off my tongue
and put it in the drawer by my bed.

The cadence of our time together
is still rattling against exposed skin,
though your lips sing static.

You embedded a beat inside me
and left your refrain to reverberate
between spine and sternum,
long after the music died.

“Soundtrack” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories like that Anymore (2011).