Poem

Person at the Window

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

inspired by Salvador Dali

He always painted her by a window.
A gold thread woven by her brother’s careful hand.

Thin curtains, like the inventions of monsters,
oscillate on either side of her in the breeze like
patient lovers and little ashes.

Amidst sand and gravel glued to canvas,
sways the finery of the broken bridge of a dream.
She stands untouched wrapped in the purity of white
and the blue of a sublime sky shimmering off of the sea.

She holds the skin of orchestras in the head of roses
and picks petals from trembling piano keys.
A symphony in red performed by instruments
birthed on liquid desires.

She remains a meditative rose,
forever at Spanish window ledge,
a faceless dream triggered by the flight of a bee
around a pomegranate one second before waking up.

Previously Published in Vermilion Literary Magazine (2022).

The Nest

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Her eyes are open.
A thin trail of blood leaks from parted mouth.
Pink dress, brown flowers,
hiked around thighs.

She,
curled on her side,
an imprint on soft grass.
One brown sandal clings to limp right foot,
the left, scratched and black bottomed.
She did run,
she did.

He cut the ice from her ears,
severed flesh of ring finger for special jewel
she would have willingly given.

Hand outstretched,
fingers curled,
nails chipped, split.
The other wrapped around belly,
hiding spliced skin.
Blood pools around body
an exposed secret.

A bird, fallen from nest
crushed underfoot.
Broken wings flailed in vain
bead black eyes screaming
louder than her voice ever could.

The nest couldn’t hold her.
Tender fluff of undeveloped feathers,
twisted neck and curled claws.

She lay still,
cicadas buzz in nearby trees.
The temperature is seventy-two.
Sun shines down on yellowing skin,
as a slight breeze brushes strands of hair
from the red slits which once held white stone.

“The Nest” is previously published in The Legendary (2013).

Before the War

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

In the holy years of childhood,
we dressed in common uniform,
but spied only on each other.
Innocent games where you hid
and I sought you out.

I woke early to creep into unkempt yard
to feel the dew from long billowing grass
across my eight year old calves
and share the silence of morning.

In the hollow nights before the air raids,
I painted your portrait
using the light of the moon
and branches from a tree
too old to climb.

I prayed on only the consistency
of your pose as you looked beyond me.

When the August sun scorched the earth
we puzzled in the cool of basements,
making pieces wedge together
if we held them just right.

You hummed me a song
about starvation
that came to you in a dream.
Using your mother’s silver spoons
and the warped lid of a tin trash can,
I beat out a hunger
to be more than just alone.

It was the summer
of our childhood,
welded in innocence
and recklessness,
before the shatter.

Before the earth quaked with
the roar of metal beasts,
shaking leaves from trees
and scattering sparrows,
frightening us to our nests.

Before the sirens
shrieked their song of anguish
and sorrow into our ears,
leaving us blind and crippled,
groping for the
touch of a kind hand.

“Before the War” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).