Crespin

Voice

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

My speech once
shuddered inside me:

a tornado siren,

a wail through my gut,

but whatever echoed
faded fast.

There was a time
I was loud,

each word scorching
the tenor of the last.

Now
my voice has subdued.

Now
I skirt the floor
with the debris of

old love poems,

unkept promises,

curse words.

I no longer
spiral pronunciations
around tongue
but let sound idle.

Where did my voice go?

Voice needs room to grow
and a space to share.

Voice needs to
cling to the octaves of
rib cage and swing

and scream and hold tight,
and not be surprised
when the waves buck us
from our feet.

“Voice” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens, September 2020.

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?

Broken Dolls

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

We are
porcelain dolls
cracked on
floorboards.

White socks
and red ribbons.
Marble eyes
vacantly
comprehending
how we
ended up in pieces
on linoleum.

Arms distort
unable to grasp,
legs contort
unless beneath us.
Curls fall from clips,
rusty coal around
your pale skin.
Plum lip color smears
out of the lines
of your careful grin.

We lean against oven
wondering if we
will ever be
able to walk again,
and theorizing
why good
parties always end
on the kitchen floor.

“Broken Dolls” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).