Poem

Love Song

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

This is a love song.

Heavy with honey,
yet rinses clean.

Know the fingerprints
which imprint on skin
have composed melody.

Our time together manifests into
wave upon wave of acoustic play,

like the night the power went out
so we lit candles and spit the lyrics
to American Pie over and over
until we recited every syllable.

Or the morning we watched the sun rise
humming Beatles ballads heard in dreams
amid the steam of coffee over pines.

There was the Thursday afternoon
in the heat of July when we watched
lightning bite the earth
and sang lonely songs of rain.

And the 4 a.m. we carelessly switched A to E
to catch a tune to match fresh free verse.

Eager to raise our voices together.

Sing with you,
to you,
clumsy hands
snapped strings,
missed notes,
forgotten words,
didn’t stop us.

I want to capture those days
in more than fuzzy photographs
and slurred memories.

I want to recreate the melody,
construct a love song,
a dedication,
to you,
to everyone,
snared in the fleeting moments
when it’s good to be alive.

“Love Song” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore (2011).

How I Ruined Your Persian Rug

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

Red nail polish splattered
against the black and gold circular pattern;
he hardly noticed.

A small bit of wax
from a candle lit,
living room picnic
melted in the middle.
He complained when he felt
the hard wax against bare feet,
but the damage seemed minute.

A black trail smeared
from the grease on my soles.
No matter how he yelled,
I couldn’t scrub it clean
or remember to leave my shoes at the door.

The corner tore during a fight
over dishes, laundry, and unhappiness.
I pushed him;
he pushed back.

The turning point was
Friday night’s Christmas party.
He was taking body shots
off the blonde in the kitchen.
I was kissing my ex on the back porch.
Neither noticed the overturned chest
leaking Merlot and merriment into a thick puddle.
The water dried, but the stain hovered.

On Saturday afternoon,
we stood on either side,
not facing, eyes downward,
and rolled it slowly up.
We placed it on the curb,
next to the VA donations
and recycling, certain someone
would pick it up.

“How I Ruined Your Persian Rug” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).

Local Honey

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

Katrina Kaye

She is selling local honey
out of the back of an 84 Dodge.
In tight worn jeans
and a crochet halter,
she wipes a sticky finger across her thigh.

I know her.
She drinks straight
from the comb.
She lets sugar sit on white teeth
savoring the rot.

She mesmerizes passer bys,
with a saccharine smile
and taut abdomen.
Trying to make an honest living
to accommodate an immoral code.

Honey,
I know you better.
I know what that caramel hair
looks like when it is unwashed
and stiff from too much sugar.
I know the sick syrup residue
the leaks down
the back of your throat.
The taste you can’t quite shake.

This remedy, homegrown and handmade,
healed burns and soothed wounds.
We candied it with
our own hands and tested it with
our own lips swelling
our immunity to foreign bodies.
We didn’t need anything more,
just this sweetness which stuck us together.

The flavor, the thick,
still reminds me of you.

She accidentally smiles at me,
lifts her hand to wave,
before catching herself,
looking away,
and returning to the hive.