Iron and Sulfur

Collection

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

Katrina Kaye

A collection of moments:

Fireflies twinkle again mountain side
near a river in North Carolina.

The heat got to me, leaving me sick
and dizzy after only two hours on the road.

Rain falling on the windshield blurring the
view of the highway. A moment of panic.

Falling asleep in a ray of sunshine that
sneaks through dingy window.

Coffee stains on white shirts, forgotten names
of relatives, pink lipstick on front teeth.

The time on the California Highway when the fog
handicapped my eyes with a sheet of white.

I thought it was the end until I saw the brake
lights pierce the mist.

Do the clouds have so much power
they can make a lazy mind time travel

to a place of yellow and orange and gold
where the sun is not kept from my skin?

A hastily written confession in
the form of a letter, never acknowledged.

Music in the morning air from a bird
who sits upon wires singing songs of gratitude.

Have I done enough to be awarded
a simple life?

“Collection” is previously published in Verse Vital (2023).

Song

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

we spoke
music

my strings
his hands

we mourned
together
in song

it
wasn’t
love

It was
sadness
sprawled in
sonata

it was
a friend
wrapped
in minuet

a tender
tune easily
forgotten

he was
the
composer

I was
the
instrument

“Song” is previously published in Verse Vital (2022) and The Green Shoe Sanctuary (2022).

Suicide Note

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

I call him and ask him to come over.
I tell him I miss his arms around me,
say I need comfort. Tell him:

I don’t want to be alone.

It isn’t a lie, but if I am honest
I should have said:

I don’t want to die alone.

I know,

we all die alone,

I know.

I don’t tell him about the pills
rotting in my gut. I don’t mention
the poison seeping into blood stream,

but I do say tonight would be the last time.
I tell him I will never call again,

I will never ask again.

He doesn’t make me talk when
he comes into the apartment.
He lets me lace my arms around him
and just hold on,

so supported,

so secure,

my knees go soft,
but he doesn’t let me fall.

Not once, not even a little.
He never let me fall.

He follows me as I stumble into
my room and climb into bed, and
lay down. He lets me curl to his side.

We slept in this position
for a thousand years one summer.
But that was a different season.

I ask him to tell me a story. 
I listen to the drone of his voice.
I am fading. 

I tell him:

I’m sorry for being so selfish.

He says:

that’s alright.
We all need someone sometime.

I tell him to leave after I fall asleep.
He assures me, he will.
Asks me about locking the door,
but I am becoming still.

I sulk beside him
feeling the rhythm of his breath
and wait for my heart to stop.