Poetry

The Forest

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Our crowns lost their jewels
in the last days of October,
scattering red and gold
from heaven to earth
and everywhere in between.

But our heartwood out measures
the sapwood by multitude,
and our trunks have become stable
thick and knotted around midrib.

No longer lean or smooth,

            but sturdy

tough skinned,
holding the nicks and gnashes
of more passing seasons,

the bleaching of the sun,
and the freezing of tips.

The canopies we bloomed
to shade our earth have become
thinner and thinner each year:
patchy,

holes of sunlight break through,

We have become womb to wildlife.
We hold the nest safe
from the reach of prey,
and though our skin may be marked,
tattooed, stretched,
though they contain wounds and rot,
so much more than rind remains.

We remain.

We are not
pathetic creatures,
even if we no longer have
the pliable limbs of our youth

and our leaves no longer
reflourish in the spring.

There is no weakness here
and the twisting to roots
that tangle like serpents
after their own tails and limbs
contorted by patches of decay
create a display of ancient brilliance.

We are true and long lived and wise.
We are radiant.

“The Forest” is previously published in Kelp Journal (2024).

Lullaby

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

the past plays wind instruments
outside bedroom window
a lullaby from a childhood
that slipped by too fast

it’s a tune that has gone unheard
for decades, yet you seem to know
the arrangement of notes
and can anticipate the changing pitch

what melody does the present
sound like other than static
from the television
left on across the room

there is no rush to end the lullaby
it is not the numbed silence from the stillness
of strings and quietude of auditorium we want
but the continuance of the melody

how can we hear the song
when the present is a distracting buzz
when the future is blaring its inevitability
so loud it rattles the windows

this song isn’t urgent to finish
but to be heard as it crests and crescendos
across the bedroom from east facing window
illuminating the dust that sways through stale air

“Lullaby” is previously published in No Longer Water (2024).

On My Own

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

I

In front of the iron gates around my apartment,
the only shadows which move
are people passing through open doors.

II

I was in search for the peace your arms gave
like a home prematurely tornado torn from me.
I was in search of hands that mimicked your genius
and eyes like the little boy who traced my lifelines.

III

The first one swept me in a whirlwind of autumn leaves
and I spent the fall in a pantomime of satisfaction.

IV

A man and a woman
can stay warm on a November night.
A man and a woman and another woman
are the heat running out on a December morning.

V

I do not know which to prefer:
the sweet lies of a memory
or the blue eyes of the bartender.
The bed heated by his hunger
or the emptiness just after.

VI

Icicles hang abandoned
dripping in the April sun.
The shadow of a man
who healed my wounds
crossed it, to and fro.
The setting,
redeemed by the shades,
prepared me for a new spring.

VII

The thin man of my summer
preferred golden birds to shy sparrows
But that didn’t stop him
for taking two years with tender feet,
allowing a momentary blindness
by chestnut feathers.

VIII

I have always been a sucker for accents
and long fingers plucking strings;
I know, too,
that difference of enchantment and truth,
but I sometimes fall victim to enchantment.

IX

When the third blue eyed boy flew out of sight,
days after winter solstice,
I had not found the imprint of you.
I stopped retracing flight patterns.

X

I release myself in my past
reflecting on silly lovers and unreal expectations
allowing the idea of home to unravel.

You took the only home I’d ever know with you
on a September morning when the train pulled from station.

XI

When we were both 24
you rode over the state line
for a weekend visit,
but a fear pierced you,
and you fell asleep in hotel room
leaving me waiting alone at window table
watching birds perch on telephone wires.

It was the last time I heard from you.

XII

My mouth cannot hold on to bitterness
but it does not retain hope either.

XIII

Evening crept into afternoon.
I lounge in solidarity.
I no longer look for home
in the cracked shells of the past.