Poetry

7

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

it has been
seven years
since last
we touched

the final
flakes of body
that remembered
are rubbed clean

i am reborn

but there is
residual substance
in the circuitry
of mind
left over, sticky, and
lingering

a clue
clinging
to cobwebs

as clean as
body may be
it is no match
for the grip
of memory

despite the
warmth of skin,
muscle, heartbeat,
breath, and blood,
there is a chill
that sinks
to bone

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

Knives

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

The knives she gave me
are perfect for slicing
strawberries at 10:24 pm
on a Thursday.

Almost too easy,
the way the fruit falls apart.

I miss her then.
Miss her sweetness
on tart tongue,
miss the way she told me
of true love
over and over by
counting my vertebrae
on slick fingers,
ticking off time.

There are too many knives
left behind.

More than half still wrapped
in cardboard and plastic,
held together with thin rubber bands.

The others stained with the juice
of fruit already sliced.

“Knives” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).

Empty

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

There is a crack inside me

impossible to see         with the naked eye
because it is covered               with flesh and bone,

muscle and vein,

but underneath

all the intricacies         that have made up

this form there is         a vacant space,

a hollow.

There was a time                     I rushed to fill it,
to store people and places        and simple memories.

There was a time         when the emptiness terrified me.

People should not have                       holes.

Are we not made

            of solid stuff?

But I have made peace            with the void within.

I am no longer             afraid of the echo

of my voice.

I no longer                   seek to be filled.

Instead I sit quiet        and cross legged

feeling the shelter

that comes

from nothingness.

Within that hollow,

I can allow      eyes           to close

and  pulse                           to slow.

I can breathe deep and be;

exist,                continue.

I can find                                 peace.

I am not

limited by                    my body

or the emptiness it holds.

“Empty” is previously published in Metonym Journal (2024).