Poetry

When the Time Comes

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

the moons I manipulated
will cease to swing
and shatter to earth

I will settle
softly upon the bottom
layer of soil,
a place where
weeds and mildew
proliferate

I will rot under the leaves
weathered flesh
and weakened bones,

it all decays
in the absence of light
there are no gods

there is only a fallen leaf
catching the wind,

lying separate,
teaching us
we all die

alone

“When the Time Comes” is previously published in the collection, my verse, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.

How to Love a Ghost

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Sleep in his old t-shirt
savoring the scent trapped inside thread and collar.
Mimic the sound of shutting doors
slapping goodbye.

Play a melody of afternoon thunderstorms
and chase the scent of rain
through the house.

Refuse to release what has passed
from mind and motion,
bite lower lip to keep words
from falling out.

Flick ash to pavement,
bare feet to sidewalk,
leave a trail from the rubble
that built a favorite mythology.

Find a boy at the bar with the same shade of eyes
and a smile kind enough to resurrect the past.
Sing all the words to Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” in his ear
in a slow dance to last call.

Stare into eyes a little too long,
listen to stories with too much thirst for truths.

Tell him he reminds you of someone you used to know.
Show him the peaceful side of your nature,
the sleepless side of your soul.

Walk across the broken glass of beer bottles
to nudge him awake,
replace missing pages about last night
over a breakfast where you
laugh too loud to be in public,
still drunk from one another.

When he leaves
thank him for wearing the skin of memory
and gifting the kindness of patience.
Do not kiss him goodbye.

Reclaim evening habits,
curled in tattered wool sweater,
beer and cigarette,
tangled in all the parts of what once was.

Watch in solitude as the full moon creeps across the sky
and breathe in all that has come to pass.

“How to Love a Ghost” was previously published on the blog Truck : n. a self-propelled vehicle for carrying goods, by Larry Goodell.

Melquiades and Loretta

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

He outlived her by twenty-three years,
yet they remain nestled together in the earth.

I can’t help but wonder if he spent
those years alone, stuck in a daughter’s
kitchen with obnoxious grandchildren
and great-grandchildren weaving around
his knobbed knees and kitchen table.

I wonder if he had other lovers,
later in life, the kind that meet late
at movies or intertwine hands on park
benches, secret affairs he kept from
controlling daughter.

Did he tell Loretta his secrets?
Ask her for forgiveness?
Come to grey marker after Sunday mass
to confess the sins he held in his heart?

Did he talk about her on the last days,
walk an 84-year-old crooked gait,
mistake the silhouette of his daughter
over the kitchen sink as long
departed wife?

Did he call her her mother’s name
without even realizing the mistake
and did he wake to a daughter’s sharp glance
before walking back to the porch to slump
on front bench in final silence?

“Melquiades and Loretta” is previously published in Graveyard Collection (2015).