Iron and Sulfur

Bone Collector

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.

A shard, humerus,
stretch of femur,

attempting to construct
fierce outline.

She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,

recreating what was
left to decay.

Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,

the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until

it’s cracked. She
takes her time.

Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,

roped veins,
threaded muscles,

covering the white
of bone,

creating life,
a strength, a purpose.

With the patience
of glass, she draws

fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.

Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight

to see what could be,
once our construction

is complete.

“Bone Collector” is previously published in Bombfire Literary Magazine (2021).

Stillness

/ Katrina Kaye / 4 Comments

Katrina Kaye

I stay until the clouds
come into your eyes.
Your body too warm
to convince me it is only a shell.

Although a chill has yet
to set into bones,
a placidity envelopes
around you more securely
than my arms ever could.

It is earth shattering;
it is broken rib
sticking its shards into lungs.

If I believed in heaven,
I could accept
you fled to a better place.
If I believed in a god
I could find
comfort knowing you are
at peace.

As it is,
I know only
you’re gone.

There was a time
I wanted to name all the trees
after your kindness.
Count leaves on stretched
fingers to recollect
how many days you
showed me love.

You healed scars
strapped across my spine
and allowed blackened feet
to balance on railroad tracks.
I was invincible
in the reflection of your eyes.

Now I stand alone beside
breakable body,
my finely woven plots
riddled with holes,
drowning in stillness.

“Stillness” is previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.

August Afternoon

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

We dance in
the heat of the kitchen.

Van Morrison plays lazily
from the living room,

me,

paper thin sun dress,
void of the undergarments
that would only cause
lines of sweat in already
wrinkled skin,

catching the breeze between
bare legs;

you,

with the grease still in
the creases of your hands,

holy jeans hanging low
on bare waist,

crooked smile plays
on parted lips;

we dance.

You would not take
no for an answer,

would not acknowledge
my casual stumble
over your bare feet,

toes somehow chilled
despite the summer heat.

We sway across kitchen
counters singing along
to every word,

hair sticking to temples,
mouth dry save for
the song on tongue.

You tell me I am
beautiful and, in that
rare delusion of August,

I believe you.

“August Afternoon” is previously published in Wingless Dreamer (2021).