Poet

I did not leave you

/ Katrina Kaye / 1 Comment

Katrina Kaye

due to the dirty dishes
or unrepaired holes in
the plaster. It was the
silence of your eyes.
Their passion drained
of all its red, the red
I once watched crawl
across your bed, before
it was our bed when I
was still chasing
dreams of migration.
It was the daily dregs
which cut the ropes of
our first love. The
terrible expression of
your day sipping cheap
beer just to get you
to sleep. It was when
we stopped going to bed
together and just slept
in the same place among
slightly different time
lines. The crack it left
was too severe and too
close to the skin. My
temperament dulled, the
anxiety that kept me bent
over kitchen sink has
dissipated and now I let
the dust collect on window
sill till it turns to mud
in the morning dew.

Previously published in Madness Muse Press (2020).

Childhood

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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).

Sparrows

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Katrina Kaye

He went to catch sparrows.
Carrying a battered birdhouse
and salted sunflower seed,
he climbed through broken barricades
with the confidence only a four year old can possess.

Using his forearm,
he pushed blonde fluff from his eyes
and peered up into stinging sunlight,
trying to catch a glimpse
of flapping wings against electric wires.

He didn’t bring home any sparrows.

Four days later,
against a concrete wall in a back alley
frequented by strays and vagrants,
you stumbled upon the tiny broken boy.

Sweet faced,
lips a bright pink,
cheeks a porcelain blue,
he looked as though he was ready
to wake for another day of play,
but when you reached to rouse him–

I remember the feel of his skin.
I expected him to be made of glass
like some doll dressed in blue.
I expected him to be warm.

Years later,
the memory spills from sleep.

Twelve years old.
Alone in a sullied alley contaminated
with rusted cans, weeds, dog shit, food wrappers.
The echoing of October wind
or was it flapping wings.

Sometimes,
when I close my eyes,
I recall the blue of cheeks
and a slight taste of metal in my mouth.

“Sparrows” is previously published in The Fall of the Sparrow (2014).