Rosemary

Katrina Kaye

It wasn’t
her perfume.

her kitchen,
a hazy dream,

She cooked with it
sometimes,

her scent,
a comfort,

picked it fresh from the
backyard where

an embrace,
soft needles folded

a giant bushel grew
beside other tiny

easily against skin,
the drizzle of rain,

emerging plants,
sage, basil, thyme.

the essence triggers
a reminder of her face,

On occasion,
after a sweet rain,

a misshaped smile
long after her absence.

the backyard would
fill with the sweet smell.

“Rosemary” was previously published in Rabbits for Luck (2016).

Muse

Katrina Kaye

She returns as shards
of glass in heel
hindering escape.

She takes the breath
from my mouth
and blows it back
in my face.

She makes my
eyes sting.

She whittled words
into my skin
and left me there
to scratch at the scabs
till they scarred
in the shape of tin can,
brown boots, bad luck,

a promise made and then
unwoven like a web
on a cracked window.

I am not sorry
I took her home
that first night.

The way she
enveloped every
part of me,
the way she
recklessed through
my unconscious

filling the empty
inside my chest,
rekindling a spark
that had long
gone to ash.

I know now,
despite the years
since I have felt
fed and full,
she stayed close
waiting for the time
when I was brave
enough to call on
her again.

Katrina Kaye

We forgot
how to touch.
Our bodies go
through the motion,
the repetition.

The pulse
and flex;

it is
too much.

It is
not enough.

You sleep
beside me,
only a
whisper away,
yet I can’t
remember
what your hands
feel like
on my body.

I like to
tell myself,
it is easy to
fall back into
place.
But these
pieces have
turned jagged,
misshaped,
rough to touch.

On nights
like this,
I prefer to
sleep alone.