Katrina

Open Doors

/ Katrina Kaye / 1 Comment

Katrina Kaye

On Sunday’s pallid morning
I made you a god.

From crimson ribbon,
brass keys, and palm leaves,
I created wings and told you
to fly towards the sea
like Icarus’s ghost.

You smiled at me,
your hopeful father,
yet transmitted exasperation
with empty eyes
and tired sighs.

Bowing to you,
I sent you off
into the waking dawn,
down Mykali’s beach,
searching for a new beginning
through doors
left accidentally open.

“Open Doors” is previously published in a Shadow Poetry and A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).

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).

to the tuesday night regular with the kind smile:

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

run away with me.

make a bedroom
of this september sky
with all its grey leaking
about asphalt and chain link.

let us take a mile of highway,
cracked under the remnants of summer,
call it ours.
i will make a flag
from a torn dress
still wet from desert storms.
wave to hell with
the past,
the present,
to all those pretty bar boys,
with their chiseled faces
and lazy smiles.

i have mountain tops peaked with dreams,
a ridge cresting the Sandias big enough for two.
we don’t need anything else.

turn toward the sun with me.

if you let me kiss your shoulder blade,
i will forever
buy you black t-shirts and serve
you coffee in bed.

you’ll slice fresh green limes
and i will engrave poetry
into the crease of your knuckles.

we will get a horse,
a tall, yellow bay,
and outrun the moon.

the dark will never catch us.

i could make you a home
if you let me learn how.
if you will help me hold up
the planks and hand me the nails
so i no longer need to clench them in my teeth.

i am searching for a spill
of sunlight upon mattress to wake up beside.
a path that will unravel silver
i can twist around ankles.
a sailboat waiting at the coast of our earth.

let us find a day
in the middle of the desert
so bright,
the sun can only be felt,
not seen.

from where we stand
we can watch as it beats upon
the open road,
using our bodies to
break into shadow.

“to the tuesday night regular with the kind smile” is previously published in September (2014).