Katrina Kaye

Our conversation

our time
It’s not your

We never
had a chance.

You left,
emptied shelves
and dresser drawers.
All I can think
is my grandfather will never
dance with me at my wedding.

My heart is broken
My body mourning.

All it is
all of this is
a boneyard
I can’t bury.

I’ve always had trouble
with the scraps,
always found it
impossible to let go.

And now,
at 10:30 on a Tuesday night
I am more empty,
more alone
than I can ever remember.

All I want is for
my mind to rest,
my body to resign.

This is not a holy time.
There is nothing sacred
in this prayer.

Dear child of my heart,
dear landmine,
how does one rectify absence
when the only thing left is
lone ness

and I am
on white pages again.

Metaphors are the same
as curse words are the same
as damn I miss you
is the same as damn
I miss myself is the same
as damn

I miss you.

“Broken” is previously published on Saturday’s Sirens (2020).

A Poem

Katrina Kaye

I was dreaming about a poem,
illusive to the page,
narrow columns featuring
my fancy script and
signature phrases.

Words I am sure I
have written before
but never had the chance
to share. Words I thought
I knew by heart.

You were there too,
but not as much
the you I knew
as a picture I have
stuck in my mind.

You were sitting on the
stairs in the narrow space
between your body and ground.
With each move I took to surpass you,
you lowered yourself more
until you were over me,
and despite the rain,
and the hood over your head,
I knew you and smiled
at clandestine luck.

I kissed you, full mouth,
wondering if anyone would notice
the static spark from my lips
to yours.

I thought I would remember the poem.
I thought I would be able to write it
upon waking but it slipped away from me
like so many cursed words and key phrases,
like memories I forgot to write down,
like walking passed a possible lover.

“A Poem” is previously published in Spillwords (2022).

Person at the Window

Katrina Kaye

inspired by Salvador Dali

He always painted her by a window.
A gold thread woven by her brother’s careful hand.

Thin curtains, like the inventions of monsters,
oscillate on either side of her in the breeze like
patient lovers and little ashes.

Amidst sand and gravel glued to canvas,
sways the finery of the broken bridge of a dream.
She stands untouched wrapped in the purity of white
and the blue of a sublime sky shimmering off of the sea.

She holds the skin of orchestras in the head of roses
and picks petals from trembling piano keys.
A symphony in red performed by instruments
birthed on liquid desires.

She remains a meditative rose,
forever at Spanish window ledge,
a faceless dream triggered by the flight of a bee
around a pomegranate one second before waking up.

Previously Published in Vermilion Literary Magazine (2022).