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).
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).
Katrina Kaye
allow eyes to rest
press palms against
closed lids and exhale
hold breath
allow silence
release time
feel the bruises on
knees and the scab
on earlobe
trace the residue of memories
that have quicksanded
through cold hands
let the mind rest
try to forgive
embrace only
the streak of now
a bird sings and the sun
insists on the slow drag
toward tomorrow
take time
to clean hands
and cross fingers
promise better
in the
last moments
of today
“today” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2021).
Chasing Rabbits 
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