Reminiscence

On the Plane

/ Katrina Kaye / 4 Comments

Katrina Kaye

to Houston,
I catch the scent
of my grandmother.

I couldn’t place
it’s origin,
but I knew
it as her.

I am not one to commune
with other worlds,
never been touched by angels
or seen flashes of god.

I have the spirituality
of an earth worm,

but
I still hope.
I always hope.

And my mind wonders at
the wandering soul
of my grandmother
as she passes through
narrow cabin.

I slip
into seat
and let her slip
into my mind.

Freely,
I trace the veins of
her cold hands,
the lines of her smile,
the sound of her laugh
all these precious memories,
cradling the images
close at mind,
tight to heart.

But they wander easy,
fade in a mere moment
as fast as
passing breeze
into the light
of rising sun.

“On the Plane” previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.

Earthquake

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The day you
asked me
to marry you,

I should
have broke
in two,
snapped twig,
the froth
on the mouth
of dead dog.

You were
the only
door frame left
standing amid
the rubble.

I should have
stretched out inside
the safety
you gifted me.

I should have
given you the
answer that would
mend the earth,
rebuild buildings,
stack bricks,
unscorch broken glass.

I should have
said yes.

Instead,
I sent ripples
vibrating
through ground.

I toppled trees,
kicked fire hydrants,
released panicked dogs
to the streets.

I should have given
you one perfect day.

Instead, I left the
ground to quake.

“Earthquake” is previously published in To Anyone Who Has Ever Loved a Writer (2014).

Memory

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I memorized your smile
so I can find it every
time I close my eyes to dream.
The wrinkle of lip,
scar of dimple, crack of tooth.

They are with me still.

I memorized the angle of cheekbone,
every cut of skin stretched,
the soft roll of forehead.
I counted each crease embedded.
Every freckle and discoloration,
the squint of eyes and the way
they shine my reflection.

I  know these parts in your absence.

I conjure them still
on the nights when my desire
to be a good woman is broken
by the solitude of my cavity;
on nights when I close my eyes,
and let you enter my mind.

Little girls are not supposed to fall in love
with little girls and despite self taught ambivalence,
your memory lingers. I find myself a scratch
on record, set to repeat. to repeat. to repeat. to repeat.

“Memory” is previously published in #TrueStory 2015.