Katrina

Hot

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

It’s a hot night.

A walk around in bra
and cut off jeans night.

A what I wouldn’t give
for refrigerated air night.

The kind that leaves
sweat on abdomen.

Beads of moisture
around hairline.

The kind of night
that makes me crave

a cold beer to press
on heated flesh,

a swirl of cigarette smoke
over my head.

It would be a good night
for honest conversation,

for philosophy and poetry
and genuine laughter,

for being close to the
heat of another body,

but far enough to not
burn from the touch.

I lick my teeth
and raise my chin.

I transform
animal, untamed, restless.

I am eager
to turn off the lights,

certain I will
glow in the dark.

“Hot” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2022).

Dryad

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Trying to escape
the heat of June,
he sits watching
the moon when
he sees her.

She walks,
feet bare in tall grass,
body illuminated in midnight.

He approaches.
Yellow wildflowers
hide his gaze.

Her neck is exposed by
the breeze as young summer
plays in loose black hair.

He watches the air
move through her mouth,
into her throat and chest.

He holds his breath
as she expels her own.

He leans forward.
Her head turns sharply,
a wild animal catching
the scent of hunters
on the wind.

He freezes.
She stares.

A soft smile plays
at the corner of her lips.
He can’t speak, but feels a
tingle going up his spine.

He smiles and laughs.

She holds his gaze,
for one, two, three seconds.
Then, like the midnight moon,
she vanishes.

“Dryad” is previously published in Hazy Expressions (2006) and A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).

At the Clinic

/ Katrina Kaye / 4 Comments

Katrina Kaye

There is eagerness
in the quiver of your knee.

I feel the rattle
of muscle to bones,
a rougher metal.

I reach for your thigh
as kind as bitch to cub,
hold you still
and our eyes meet.

Caught off guard you
waken from trance.
Come back to me.

You smile.

I take my hand away,
but you catch it with
quick fingers. You say
you are not scared,

but I know well the
carved edges of waiting
room walls and how fake
wood on office doors peels
around the edges.

I’ve been counting the
tiny dots on ceiling tile
for my whole life
just waiting for it to
fall in on me and now
I bring you here,

lover, friend, child.
I am more frightened
than I have ever been.

“At the Clinic” is previously published in To Anyone Who Has Ever Loved a Writer (2014).