Katrina Kaye
We forgot
how to touch.
Our bodies go
through the motion,
the repetition.
The pulse
and flex;
it is
too much.
It is
not enough.
You sleep
beside me,
only a
whisper away,
yet I can’t
remember
what your hands
feel like
on my body.
I like to
tell myself,
it is easy to
fall back into
place.
But these
pieces have
turned jagged,
misshaped,
rough to touch.
On nights
like this,
I prefer to
sleep alone.
Katrina Kaye
it has been
seven years
since last
we touched
the final
flakes of body
that remembered
are rubbed clean
i am reborn
but there is
residual substance
in the circuitry
of mind
left over, sticky, and
lingering
a clue
clinging
to cobwebs
as clean as
body may be
it is no match
for the grip
of memory
despite the
warmth of skin,
muscle, heartbeat,
breath, and blood,
there is a chill
that sinks
to bone
“7” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2021).
Katrina Kaye
You can see where the old pier
used to be, hundreds of water
warped posts standing at attention
in the shallow water. You can see
how low the tide has receded. They are
lost souls, blackened by time and hard
water, seething salt from tattered torsos.
They watch the beach as if they remembered
the feel of sand between their toes but
they have sulked too long, become one with
the rippling patterns. Strangers forever
separated by five distinctive feet.
“The Pier” is previously published in Chasing Rabbits (2012).
Chasing Rabbits 
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