Katrina Kaye
The clay we are molded
in will not harden. We
are not meant to last.
Even as we lay in post
coital glory, the tremble
still in my legs, the sweat
clinging to our bodies,
even now, we know
this is the end.
A moment shared, in all
its precious give and take,
touch and toss, comfort and
cross, is just a temporary
slip of the sun across sky.
Hold my body to yours, let
the sweat dry and consciousness
return to our extremities
let the sun fall on our last
day of summer. My dearest friend.
“Last Day” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2020).
Chasing Rabbits 
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