Katrina Kaye

You are not the girl you were before,
but not all these tricks are new.
Some remain trapped inside pulled muscles
and survival instinct.

Disfigurement of fingerprint bruises
on fourteen-year-old trachea.
White striped scars against tanned skin.
Tiny circles of cigarette tips
left on the underside of American thighs.

Old tricks concealed in the green casing of
jade scarves, ill patterned tattoos,
and skirts cut at the knees.

There is a metamorphosis scratching,
a change of perception
hanging upside down from the higher branches.
Discoloration solidifies,
a healing of harm inflicted on adolescent flesh.

Balancing acts shift from high beam to fingertips.
Sleeves conceal tricks of trade
instead of slices at the nape of wrist.

You’re not the girl you were before
and not all these tricks are old.

A reformation recognizable
not only in breastbone and high forehead,
but in the pacing of breath and the stillness of soul.

Cocoon continues to cling to branch.
Skin sheds over five lifetimes,
caterpillar remnants catch on ankle,
but they do not drag you,

Transform under the thumb of time,
crack chrysalis into a thousand sharp flecks
and puzzle the pigments together into a
newly formed pattern, still crumpled and wet
with the residue of rebirth.

“Turning Tricks” is previously published in No Longer Water (2024).