Iron & Sulfur

A Poem

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

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

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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).

Drunk

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I let you follow my eyes
taste my words,
let your hand sit on my shoulder
just long enough,
and your breathe hover near my ear.

I can’t remember how I got there.
How I crept so close to your side.
I suppose you got me a little drunk too,
a caress on your back, a playful snicker,
slow blink, then look away.

Can’t tell who was the cat
and who the wolf.
Didn’t matter who
was following who’s tracks.
We ended at the same station,
two steps beyond the stop sign.

And when it was time for last call
and those dirty lights
of two am sparked on.
Our eye lids were at half mast
and our grins, too bemused,
to realize we were being called home.
To infatuated to accept
it was time to part.

I left you hung over
without so much as
a bloody mary to nurse you back to health.
And as I too sat at home
cradling a pounding head,
I think of how
wicked it was to lead you somewhere
you’re not allowed to go.
To let you feel the map
of my spine then retreat with no
more than an empty bottle
and a sour taste on your tongue.

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