Bone Collector

Katrina Kaye

She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.

A shard, humerus,
stretch of femur,

attempting to construct
fierce outline.

She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,

recreating what was
left to decay.

Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,

the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until

it’s cracked. She
takes her time.

Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,

roped veins,
threaded muscles,

covering the white
of bone,

creating life,
a strength, a purpose.

With the patience
of glass, she draws

fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.

Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight

to see what could be,
once our construction

is complete.

“Bone Collector” is previously published in Bombfire Literary Magazine (2021).

Dust

Katrina Kaye

I hold
your cheek
in paper
thin hands.

Skin like
baby powder
folds onto
itself.
So fragile
I fear you will
disintegrate
under my touch.

You warm
my fingers
with whispered
rosaries and
reassurances.
I comfort
and am comforted
in the same
exhalation.

Neither of us
knew
it would be
my skin to fall
first to dust.

“Dust” is previously published in Mollyhouse (2022).

Continuance

Katrina Kaye

You didn’t leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
grandmother’s watch, told me
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn’t fit your slim wrists,
said, it would look better on me.

When I pointed out that it no
longer worked, you shrugged and
said simply, “time is a silly thing.”

You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp. Your mother
decided on the closed casket.

At your funeral, I stand
consumed by the list of things I
didn’t know, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.

“Continuance” is previously published in To Anyone Who Ever Loved a Writer (2014) and Fevers of the Mind (2021).