Katrina K Guarascio

Slice of Thigh

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Your hand loitered too long
against the scar on my thigh.
A slim trench of fluttered skin
hidden in the darkness of our bed.

I felt the graze of fingertips
skulk back and forth
as you became aware
of wrinkled depression,
a gash healed over with tender tissue,
not forgotten, and never mentioned.

You stumbled upon secret slice
as sharp as emerging tooth,
as though neglected stretch of skin
remained hungry and eager
for the affection of fingers.

You, with your stubborn curiosity,
said no words, only replied
in soft caress. You lingered
over this mark as though trying
to heal it with the heat of your hand,
lending the question as to whether it is something
you love or long to erase.

“Slice of Thigh” is previously published in Open Minds Quarterly (2022).

Phoenix 

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

It is only from ash
that new wings can emerge.

The smug of soot
on forehead offers
the cleansing of fresh feathers,
burnt orange against blue eyes.

We are ready to ride onward,
watch the slouch
of Bethlehem’s beast
and feel the curve of shoulders
as they hover
over the clouds of
yesterday’s thunderstorm.

The flash of lightning
stuck us to dirt,
so let us flare like red bird,
let us track skies uncharted and
rip apart
dark formations that blot out sky.

Let the innards leak,
release the flood and from the muck
watch creature birthed.

A second coming
hidden by the thick
of afternoon storm clouds,
casting shadows
on the tragedy of
yesterdays too clearly
remembered.

Let the past burn away,
let it pierce, cloud over, rip open.
Watch the carnage
a little a fire
can do when you stop
paying attention to the
change in temperature.

It is a only a matter of time
before wings once again open to sun.

“Phoenix” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014) by Swimming with Elephants Publications and The Legendary Issue 39,

We Are Not

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

We are not architects.

We are incapable of designing even
the most rudimentary of concepts.
We are not ranch style homes
with islands in our kitchens,
shiny steel pots hanging from hooks.

We are not adults when we are together,
We are not day jobs and early nights.
We are not rational.

We are not quarterly clocks
or forgotten promises,
we are not clean slates.

We are not Christmas traditions
or dinner table arguments.

We are not first loves.

We will never be that old couple on the beach
watching the sea.

We are not pegged legged or one armed,
and although capable of swinging,
we do not always land on our feet.
We will never be lawn mowers or garden tenders.

We will never be teddy bears or multicolored legos.
We are too old to be children.
We are not competent with building blocks.

We are not good liars,
we are not without the burden of guilt
and the expectation of consequence.

We will never be nuclear.

We will never be suits and formal wear
We are not made of plastic,
our colors run,
our sides bend.

We are not indestructible.
We are merely chemical.
The reactions of our exchanges
through touch send easy fever.

We are not poetry.
We are not romance novels.

We are instruction manuals
and wings pieced together
from the remnants of kites.

I don’t know what we are.
When I ask you,
you can only tell me who I am.
You can only say how you feel.
There is no we.

Dare I say
we are holding each other in the dark.
That we are not thinking about tomorrow,
but counting this moment for all it is.
Dare I say all we are is right now.

“We Are Not” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2021).