Iron & Sulfur

River

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

Your touch is redemptive,
and I wade into streams
like open arms,
eager to be consumed.

But,
your seemingly subdued surface
masks a biting undercurrent.
There is something churning
just underneath,
beyond sight,
beyond reach,
the temperature changes,
the dirt rises.

Your waters transform.
The old flowing out,
the new streaming in.
Seemingly sedentary,
but not constant.

I trip into trenches
reminiscent of your smile
and reflective of scars.
Yet,
when my lips drip with your words,
and my skin is moist from your touch,
I feel sorrow
hiding in mock transparency.

I spread myself thin upon your surface,
trying to absorb into you.
To reach the inner depths,
but buoyancy keeps me well guarded.
And you will not swallow me.

I cannot float here forever
rains eventually dry,
and mud turns to dirt.
I must return,
stand,
at last walk upon earth.

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

Uninvited

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

You are uninvited;
bitter against lips,
rash over skin,
sleep talk and night sweats
forbidding mindful rest.

Your voice molds over me,
a battle of syntax,
an iron cast conceived
in a stretched mind
and firmly planted feet.

Syllables wrap
thin ropes around
outstretched fingers.

The tongue,
so strong.

This pop of shoulder,
this curse word and collection
of false stories,
they are not meant for you.
I only spit them
in surprise of your presence,
eager to remain pacified
against determination.

You’re here now,
without warning.
The best kind
of unexpected guest.

I am ready for
slink and slither,
praying on revolution
like a forgotten religion,
words on pagan moon,
animal inside human covering.

Become claws and creature,
reptile and remarkable.

Come,
I’ve already let you in.

“Uninvited” is previously published in Roi Faineant Literary Press (2021) and They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore (2011).

Broken

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Our conversation
dried;

our time
over.
It’s not your
fault.

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
broken,
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
alone
aloneness
lone ness
lonely
ness

and I am
drip
drip
dripping
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
damn

I miss you.

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