Helpless

Katrina Kaye

This is the third day
I have crossed the shady bridge
connecting woodland road to freeway,
and the squirrel is still there.
 

Its white belly bloated skyward,
rodent mouth agape with
bucked teeth displayed, 
crippled foot
poked with bones
emerging
from fur cover.

 If I was home, I would bury the body.
Place what was left in shallow grave,
say a word of passing, but I am not home. 

I am a thousand miles from the comforts I know.
I am shovelless and I mourn that which I cannot change
as I watch the rot, helpless to the decay. 

I am observer only,
unable to partake 

to act
to initiate change 

unable to do more than witness.

It is not unlike the tragedy that
flashes our screens relentlessly,
the yelps from Mother Earth as she
floods and shakes and burns to the
hate and greed that continues to
overwhelm the hearts of men.

The differences we are told we can
make are so small, so fragile, and so
easily undone. They seem near nonexistent and,
like caring about a dead squirrel on the side of the road,
do not change anything.

I am helpless
to do anything more than watch
as our world, once alive and
strong and beautiful,

continues to decompose.  

 

 

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Turning Tricks

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).

While she sleeps,

Katrina Kaye

I watch the clouds gather
outside the bedroom window

the snow is coming

please let the snow come

the hush of the early morning
wraps itself around me
turning my breath to ghost

While she sleeps,
I make coffee
enough for both of us
but I know hers will go cold
before she wakes

when she wakes

if she wakes

I watch the sky
and pray for snow
let coffee bitter the tongue
take in the air
from my lungs

when I woke
I was colder than I have
ever been
I was talking to ghosts
that are still clinging to flesh and blood

When I woke,
I was alone so I stayed
beside her while she slept

across the room

in a blanket and chair

by the window

sipping the coffee and
watching the sky
praying for snow
hoping she wakes soon

so neither of us
will be alone

“While she sleeps,” was previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2021).