Katrina Kaye
you
you are mine
for me
you are the silver
on my fingers
the sweat along
my temples
you are mine
a confidence I don’t
have to share
or confess
a secret
not exactly
hidden
but owned
I have no
lingering value
or clandestine
treasure
there is just
who I am
and you
my gift
“Mine” is previously published in Rabbits for Luck (2016).
Katrina Kaye
1) You hurt me.
Perhaps it was pride
or a small bruise on
left ventricle, but
sometimes when I take
a deep breath, I still
feel the sting.
2) I never believed
the stories your sold
to my patient ear. I
only heard the harsh
words and the criticism
you spat at my face.
Those are the only words
I really remember.
3) I liked the way
you kissed my forehead
when I rested beside you.
4) You reputation proceeded
you. It was my own faulty
wiring that placed my hand
on your door. I always knew
what I would find.
5) The first time we had
sex was awkward and disappointing.
6) The second time we had
sex, you said I made you
anxious which is why you went
flaccid to my touch. I don’t
know if you lied
for my pride or yours.
7) It was wrong the way
you lead me to believe
you genuinely cared for me.
8) Even to this day,
I still like when you
smile at me. Despite it
all, I smile back.
9) Even if we did exist
in some alternate universe,
we would never fit together.
10) I forgive you.
I forgive myself.
“10 Things I Never Told You Because I Knew Better” is previously published in Rabbits for Luck (2016).
Katrina Kaye
Forearms reflect scratches
from childhood tree:
a celebration of skin
still unscathed by the
sting of antiseptic.
The skyline bleeds burgundy
as the sun sighs.
These fire kisses spot the surface
of most precious underbelly,
soft and freckled,
beneath iridescent hues
of motley leaves.
With the voice of a child
fading from my throat,
I ask you how much longer
for pink to flush and fade?
How many eons for cells to gather
upon each other and repair?
I pray for enough
waning light to once again
stretch to tree branch,
gather strength in formative muscles
and pull skyward.
Stars infiltrate the fire in gut,
leaving sky sulking to pitch.
The scratch and bite of brittle bark
recedes to tender touch as I
abandon branches for the
balance of arms.
“Childhood” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).
Chasing Rabbits 
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