Iron and Sulfur

After He Left

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

They said
I would start
hearing things:

the heater
click-click-clicking
on and off,

cars driving by
at all hours,
the tap, tap, taping of
the dog’s toe nails
on the kitchen floor,

a phone call
at two am,
the crash of the ice
from the freezer,
the rattle of wind
knock-knock-knocking
at the front door.

They said
I would hear
remnants of
our life together
in the morning news,

the creak-creak-creaking
of sunken
floorboards,
in the way the
blankets rustle
to the floor,

and the way water
drip-drip-drips
from faucet.

But I don’t
hear anything,
only silence.

Nothing but
silence.

“After He Left” is previously published in Door is a Jar (2023).

 

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).

In the Wake of War

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The wildflowers will not survive.

A mumble and murmur stomping
the surface of the earth has displaced

their fragile roots.

The smoke will rise,

scatter,             stumble in the wind.

The gentle opening of petals to sun
will be smothered by air clouded over
by a thick explosion of bravado.

The wildflowers will not survive,

but they might return.

Once the dust settles,
a few seeds may scatter in the wind
in search of new bed to lay
their roots,                    to rebuild.

In time:

the rain will return,

as will the wind.

as will the flowers;

just as surely as war,

and explosion               and the uprooting

            of innocent life

will return.

We forget,                    in our windowsills

            and sunshine,

even if we were planted in this spot for generations
a glorious tragedy is always close by.

“In the Wake of War” was previously published by Pictura Journal (2024).