Guarascio

In Your Car at 4am on a Thursday night

/ Katrina Kaye / 3 Comments

Katrina Kaye

The awkwardness of the steering
wheel presses against thighs
as if to balance the round world
between my legs. You were shy smiles
and lowered eyes and I, in the brave
cover of darkness, looked at you longer
when you were looking away.

We were riding crashing waves,
horses stomping though shoreline,
sand left upturned,
and it was no secret
I liked your hand on my knee.

Windows slowly mist with
the heat of conversation,
tongues slip fast over sermons.
At some point we forgot how to breathe.
We were already removed from the pack,
paired off, claimed.

There was no future
on that downtown street.
Only moment, only want,
and the knowledge of your
middle name meant everything to me.

I want to feel that again
the surge of emotion,
a force of transcendence,
strength,               freedom.

I grew past parked cars in empty lots.
Arms no longer tempt, only secure,
hold down, hold back.
I may have stopped curling my toes for you
but there is still a rip torn into lifeline.

A memory healed over,
but a scar remains.

To be child again,
to bleed abandon and
release quickening howl,
in your car, enraptured
all over you.

“In your car at 4 am on a Thursday night” is previously published in Bombfire Literary Magazine (2021).

Wind

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

She has no
secrets from
the wind.

What she
buries in
layers and
crude wraps

is revealed
in the thick
lick of his
crooked tongue.

She is statue,
hollowed out,
broken bones,
crushed to powder
until there is
nothing left.

The wind takes
the rest.

“Wind” is previously published in Rigorous (2021).

Drunk

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I let you follow my eyes
taste my words,
let your hand sit on my shoulder
just long enough,
and your breathe hover near my ear.

I can’t remember how I got there.
How I crept so close to your side.
I suppose you got me a little drunk too,
a caress on your back, a playful snicker,
slow blink, then look away.

Can’t tell who was the cat
and who the wolf.
Didn’t matter who
was following who’s tracks.
We ended at the same station,
two steps beyond the stop sign.

And when it was time for last call
and those dirty lights
of two am sparked on.
Our eye lids were at half mast
and our grins, too bemused,
to realize we were being called home.
To infatuated to accept
it was time to part.

I left you hung over
without so much as
a bloody mary to nurse you back to health.
And as I too sat at home
cradling a pounding head,
I think of how
wicked it was to lead you somewhere
you’re not allowed to go.
To let you feel the map
of my spine then retreat with no
more than an empty bottle
and a sour taste on your tongue.

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