Guarascio

Alice

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

little girl
with the
blue dress

acts sad
as she
prances around
the yard

pretending fish
tell tales
and looking-glasses
hold more
than reflections

she stopped
eating
the pink
frosted cookies
when she
found out
they were
the reason
she got
so big

she stopped
digging in
the backyard
after she
realized all
the rabbits
fled their holes

she wishes
her imagination
would take
hold of
her again

instead of
teasing her
with glimpses
into what
might be

if only
she could
fall asleep
a second time

“Alice” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfection (2009) and More Fire than Sun (2008).

Prayers

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I know prayers like crickets,
small and sharp.

I pray to resist the temptation
of a Thursday night in the back
of your car and one drink too many.

I pray my body is in a state of redemption.

I pray skin toughens under desert sun;
the sand in my chest scrubs me clean,
scours the ill, the wicked,
the ugly
until it shines.

Do not allow me to regress into sickness.

Lead me not to deteriorate
into the fragile I once was.

I pray,

holding tight to wooden beads
that coddle the crook of my throat
cutting off circulation to hands,

 for daylight,

 for the flutter of wings,

for morning song.

“Prayers” is previously published in After Happy Hour Review (2022).

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?