New Mexico

All My Heart

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

At 2 am on a Sunday night/Monday morning,
he comes home and wakes me with one
of our favorite albums on the turntable
and an invitation to join him in the moonlight.

Before I can protest, he turns me
into giggles and interpretive dance
as we sing the words we know
and mumble the ones forgotten.

Without knowing it was possible,
I am child again:

up too late without supervision and
no fear of consequence or tomorrow
creating a secret language with my best friend.

Until—
exhausted from spinning himself in circles—

my love,

who dances with his hands
as if they held sparklers and conducted orchestras,
who flips the album over and over and over
because he doesn’t realize we listened to both sides,
who looks at me as if I am magic
and serenades me with a lingering lullaby,

finally nests besides me in the low light of the rising sun,
and slips into the sweetest of dreams.

I rest my hand on his chest and feel his breathing
faster than mine like horses galloping or
the rabid beat of evening drums,
like mercy and the ever-growing need for love.

Who ever thought I could love so hard,
and a human no less, so unreliable, so inconstant,
but I do. I love with my strong hands and slow breath
and the music in my mind. I love with all my heart.

 

Dear Dylan Thomas’s Father,

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I get it.
The raging—
                it’s exhausting.

At some point,
you just have to call it a day.
Leave the living
to the young,             to the ambitious
to those who have not yet asked
                “is this all there is?”

At some point, as enchanting
as the sun sets and rises,
the predictable actions
of turning days are not enough
to entice a rewatch.

When desire has desiccated,
when the cat’s purr no longer
creates the curve of a smile,
when all the music and magic and poetry
and rage— Yes, once the rage is gone,

the dying light becomes more
comfort than adversary.

At some point, unbeknownst to you,
you felt the most joy you ever would.

That most perfect day was a     
forgotten afternoon in your
thirties that you don’t remember
because you were having too
much fun to write it down
and forgetfulness is much           
crueler these days.

Don’t let some kid,
even your own,
who has trouble dealing
with his own grief
keep you plugged in.

No, old man,
if that light is fading
and the closing music is playing
then do go,

gently,

because a kind departure
at old age is a gift few of us
have the privilege to receive.