Guarascio

Empty

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

There is a crack inside me

impossible to see         with the naked eye
because it is covered               with flesh and bone,

muscle and vein,

but underneath
all the intricacies         that have made up
this form there is         a vacant space,

a hollow.

There was a time                     I rushed to fill it
to store
people and places        and simple memories.

There was a time         when the emptiness terrified me.

People should not have                       holes.
Are we not made

            of solid stuff?

But I have made peace           with the void within.

I am no longer             afraid of the echo
of my voice.
I no longer                   seek to be filled.

Instead I sit quiet        and cross legged

feeling the shelter

that comes

from nothingness.

Within that hollow,

I can allow      my eyes           to close

and my pulse                           to slow.
I can breathe deep and be;

exist,                continue.

I can find                                peace.
I am not

limited by                    my body

or the emptiness it holds.

“Empty” is previously published in Metonym Journal (2024).

In praise of silence

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

It is easy to forget
the sound of one’s voice.

The peaceful practice
of silence and loss can add up to

forgetfulness and leave the mind to wonder
if anything is worth saying at all.

Consider the desire to end the silence;
to create clear and concrete language.

Do you dare
cause a ripple?

Practice  conversation, not just in mind,
but with tongue and air and the movement of lips.

And what relief, what glory, to speak,
to shatter silence with those well-chosen words.

But the more one speaks,
the more often one forgets what was said,

and there is always need for repetition depending
on who is around to hear.

Also, our message is so often lost,
what initiated that long ago lure of speech soon dissipates.

It is then a time to recall the peace of silence
and the ease of observer,

and once again, allow lips to seal and listen
to the mumbled murmur of the morning rain.

 

 

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Ghosts of California

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Curled in brown wicker,
I bask in the stories of dead men.

Sun drenched cowboys who have
long since stepped foot on a farm;
no longer able to ride a horse.

Their eyes reveal they have
put up with California for too long.

And now, as each of their ghosts lean
into the basket and poke at my red face,
they embed legends on childish palms:

say it is for luck,
say it is one of their rituals.

They don’t realize the calluses they create,
never suspect such power in stirring
the clouded skies of a child.