Katrina Kaye
She has no
secrets from
the wind.
What she
buries in
layers and
crude wraps
is revealed
in the thick
lick of his
crooked tongue.
She is statue,
hollowed out,
broken bones,
crushed to powder
until there is
nothing left.
The wind takes
the rest.
“Wind” is previously published in Rigorous (2021).
Katrina Kaye
I let you follow my eyes
taste my words,
let your hand sit on my shoulder
just long enough,
and your breathe hover near my ear.
I can’t remember how I got there.
How I crept so close to your side.
I suppose you got me a little drunk too,
a caress on your back, a playful snicker,
slow blink, then look away.
Can’t tell who was the cat
and who the wolf.
Didn’t matter who
was following who’s tracks.
We ended at the same station,
two steps beyond the stop sign.
And when it was time for last call
and those dirty lights
of two am sparked on.
Our eye lids were at half mast
and our grins, too bemused,
to realize we were being called home.
To infatuated to accept
it was time to part.
I left you hung over
without so much as
a bloody mary to nurse you back to health.
And as I too sat at home
cradling a pounding head,
I think of how
wicked it was to lead you somewhere
you’re not allowed to go.
To let you feel the map
of my spine then retreat with no
more than an empty bottle
and a sour taste on your tongue.
“Drunk” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore…(2011).
Katrina Kaye
from across a litter infested courtyard
in front of chipped blue four-plexes
he calls to her: silently, inside the wall of his mind
every time She slips by
he learned her name once
off a postcard misdirected
wish you were here
scrawled in handwriting which could have been his own
he never thought She looked like a Caroline
She can’t see him; he is too still in the sunlight
She can’t feel his presence; he breathes too softly
She doesn’t hear him: praying, wishing
She
She is the polite smile in place of words
She is the lover who stopped returning his phone calls
She is the daughter who forgot his birthday
She is the friend who has become too busy to share conversations about the weather
She is the son too ashamed to introduce him to his new fiancé
She is the shifty eyes saying she has somewhere better to go
She is the granddaughter who doesn’t remember the songs
he sang to her as she lied awake in her crib
She is his everything, every person, every hope, everything
and he does not exist to her
She doesn’t cross the courtyard as much anymore
got a new job in the Heights and new boyfriend in the valley
never really home he figures
still he watches her slipping by behind sliding wooden doors
“Slipping By” is previously published in Nerve Cowboy (2004).
Chasing Rabbits 
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