Poetry

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?

Boxes

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Surrounded by boxes:

mementos and memories,
bits of a lifetime gathered
and collected, carefully stored.

Weren’t there days
when these collections seemed too few?

Not enough good times;
not enough adventures;
not enough pictures;
not enough.

Various yesterdays mixed together
until it is impossible to tell
one apart from the next.

Is that what makes a life?
The proof of adventures once lived?

Is that enough?

And when does it become too much?

When the photo albums are full?
When the knick knacks are entirely
covered by years of ubiquitous dust?
When the ink of written word
is worn unreadable?

What to do with all the time spent
when there is no longer energy
enough to open the boxes?

Previously Published in “Otherwise Engaged” (2024).