Poetry

Prayers

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I know prayers like crickets,
small and sharp.

I pray to resist the temptation
of a Thursday night in the back
of your car and one drink too many.

I pray my body is in a state of redemption.

I pray skin toughens under desert sun;
the sand in my chest scrubs me clean,
scours the ill, the wicked,
the ugly
until it shines.

Do not allow me to regress into sickness.

Lead me not to deteriorate
into the fragile I once was.

I pray,

holding tight to wooden beads
that coddle the crook of my throat
cutting off circulation to hands,

 for daylight,

 for the flutter of wings,

for morning song.

“Prayers” is previously published in After Happy Hour Review (2022).

Mirror

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The mirror is warped.

It flatters me to the right
and ripples me to the left;
an unreliable narrator telling
the story of the person
I have become.

My eyes are not consistent.
They change color in the light.
They shift an image from a
cloud to a carousel.
They focus on the detail
and miss the larger picture.

How long have I been
mistaking landscapes for self-portraits?
Seeing the line where the shore
ends and not the sea?

It is easy to become lost in the minutiae,
examining each endless detail until
it unravels a new unexplored terrain,
instead of setting sights on the glory
of the whole horizon.

Isn’t there a beauty in a pinch of sand
that the dunes in all their glory cannot match?
A world that cannot be seen without
microscope and closer examination?

What chance does someone like me,
with a distorted reflection and an
unclear vision, have at uncovering
the truth of what is promised?

Is it wrong to want the glory of a speck
and not the entire complexity of the world?

“Mirror” is previously published in “no longer water” (2024).

Fated

/ Katrina Kaye
Katrina Kaye

Three girls weave colored threads, square knots, cherry beads, to make a bracelet for me.

Mischief reflected in silvery glimmered fingertips.

Knowing the secrets, they wait for me to ask.

My morning girl, blonde strains pulled back, green eyes squinting,

measures a golden thread, watches my face brighten, and returns my playful gaze;

Even though I know the answer, she wants me to ask: who?

My midday girl, brown curls shaking, intent on perfection, unravels another length; a deep sapphire, like a newborn’s iris.

I cradle my swollen abdomen, light kicks greet my hands. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

She wants me to ask: when?

My midnight girl, through parted black waves, sharpens brass scissors, waiting for my attention to settle against her.

Cloudy, vacant eyes glued to me. I watch her hands, quick and precise, as she cuts the threads with a firm finality.

My hands fall slowly away from a motionless belly. She looks at me, apathetic, plain faced.

She wants me to ask: why?