Kaye

Boxes

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Surrounded by boxes:

mementos and memories,
bits of a lifetime gathered
and collected, carefully stored.

Weren’t there days
when these collections seemed too few?

Not enough good times;
not enough adventures;
not enough pictures;
not enough.

Various yesterdays mixed together
until it is impossible to tell
one apart from the next.

Is that what makes a life?
The proof of adventures once lived?

Is that enough?

And when does it become too much?

When the photo albums are full?
When the knick knacks are entirely
covered by years of ubiquitous dust?
When the ink of written word
is worn unreadable?

What to do with all the time spent
when there is no longer energy
enough to open the boxes?

Previously Published in “Otherwise Engaged” (2024).

In the Wake of War

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The wildflowers will not survive.

A mumble and murmur stomping
the surface of the earth has displaced

their fragile roots.

The smoke will rise,

scatter,             stumble in the wind.

The gentle opening of petals to sun
will be smothered by air clouded over
by a thick explosion of bravado.

The wildflowers will not survive,

but they might return.

Once the dust settles,
a few seeds may scatter in the wind
in search of new bed to lay
their roots,                    to rebuild.

In time:

the rain will return,

as will the wind.

as will the flowers;

just as surely as war,

and explosion               and the uprooting

            of innocent life

will return.

We forget,                    in our windowsills

            and sunshine,

even if we were planted in this spot for generations
a glorious tragedy is always close by.

“In the Wake of War” was previously published by Pictura Journal (2024).

Sin

/ Katrina Kaye
Katrina Kaye

a quick kiss by car door,

pretty lies from parted lips,

a look too long lingered.

these acts may be more gift than vice.

we were windstorm at the door; a dry desert of dust and devils.

i have become bold despite the hitch in my side,

the limp in get up and go.

i am wearing a souvenir:

a too big jangle around boney wrist,

a prize earned from the last match between you and me.

even now before all the whims of the saints,

I can’t help but to stretch out the remnants of what passed.

how can I see these rare gestures as just another sweet sin?