Guarascio

Wild

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Our hunger was
never so animal
as it was on
the Cold Moon,
never so bloody
as the first
of the month.

We salivated;

the slick of the bone,
the cut of tooth
on tenderloin.

Counted pulse beats
and tick of time,
dripped words
like weapons.

In a hurry,
panting and
pacing, a dog,
not of war,
but of conquest,
of revolution.

By winter we
didn’t have enough
meat on our bones
to gnaw against our gums.

We never really
learned how
to survive
off of more than
each other,

to scavenge feathers
falling soundless,
the ruffle of the lost.

It was our isolation
that buried white teeth
deep in the earth.

“Wild” is previously published in Marrow Magazine (2022) and Weasel Press (2022).

Mule

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I am mule.

My bay, an obnoxious yap

from graying muzzle,

as I move from
under  master’s whip.

My velvet ears twitch

with distrust for the acts of man.

I will not be owned

and have grown impatient

with the repeated acts of

those who claim to know what’s best,
so I become obstinate

with mud to my knees

rebelling by standing still,
immovable in open
stall despite the whistle on the wind.

I want only a gentle hand, but deny

those offered me as though

their compassion was insult or pity.

No longer do I hold desire to plough forward,

but I long to preserve the moments

as they are gifted, one sunset, one thoughtful word,

one cube of sugar, one kindness at a time.

Hopefully, this perseverance

will lead me to dry pastures where only

the occasion fly distracts from

solitude and peace.

“Mule” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2022).

Sun

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Your world is absent of light.
Dust reflected in rare brightness
only to disappear behind western vista.

Enveloped in gloom,
you watch from thick shadows
the world succumbing to the dim,
you fade in the dusk.

If I promise to follow you into the night,
take your path away from the sun
and wrap myself in your darkness,

will you sit beside me,
fingers interlaced with my own,
and watch the sun rise?

“Sun” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore (2011).