Words

Katrina Kaye

I do not use my words
like stringed instruments.

They are not plucked
with such distinction.
They are tossed about,
careless as September,

left to crumble under
the heels of black boots,
graying with wear.

Every word is a burden,
a yellowed fleece wrapped
around shoulders crumbling backbone.

Promises undelivered at front door,
lies folded across the lap at dinner table,
a late night seduction no one hears.

I drown in conversation.

How many feet can shove between lips
before the chips and cracks run too deep;
before there is nothing left to repair?

Do I dare attempt
to crush the shells
stacked between teeth?

Do I dare attempt
to mend stretched threads
with the truth hidden in my gut?

Or shall I wait until the tide of time
takes my words from me?

“Words” is previously published in September (2014).

Recovery

Katrina Kaye

This is a moment in
the throes of recovery.

In an attempt to mend,

to collect crushed shells
left to rot on the beach
and form them back together,

to recreate something whole,

I creep on hands and knees across
tousled bed sheets
to where you sit reading a book

and lie my head on your body,
purring into the flesh of your thigh
before sickness reclaims me.

Before I regress,

revert,

relapse,

take it

all

back

in.

In only minutes,
the tide will drag me into
the ocean of broken back.

The heave of stomach
will turn me from your scent.

The blistered,

drained,

bandaged,

will bubble under your supple touch.

But for this moment,

I rest my head upon the circuitry of your body,
listen to your voice read of rabbits and waterships,
your thumb strokes the bone of my cheek,

and count each lick of my body’s fall
and rise.

“Recovery” is previously published in Catching Calliope Vol 2, 2014 and my verse…(2014)..

Poets

Katrina Kaye

We are not songbirds;

we are the wild mustangs,
the feral beasts
who thundered across the open.

We beat out passion
with untamed hooves
and scream our songs
like trumpets,

leaving behind broken
larkspur and hoof prints
in the mountain mud.

We do not embrace,
but find familiarity
in our propinquity and
the gentle rubbing of noses.

“Poets” is previously published in September (2014) and somewhere else that I can’t seem to remember.