Poetry

Prayers

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I know prayers like crickets,
small and sharp.

I pray to resist the temptation
of a Thursday night in the back
of your car and one drink too many.

I pray my body is in a state of redemption.

I pray skin toughens under desert sun;
the sand in my chest scrubs me clean,
scours the ill, the wicked,
the ugly
until it shines.

Do not allow me to regress into sickness.

Lead me not to deteriorate
into the fragile I once was.

I pray,

holding tight to wooden beads
that coddle the crook of my throat
cutting off circulation to hands,

 for daylight,

 for the flutter of wings,

for morning song.

“Prayers” is previously published in After Happy Hour Review (2022).

Fated

/ Katrina Kaye
Katrina Kaye

Three girls weave colored threads, square knots, cherry beads, to make a bracelet for me.

Mischief reflected in silvery glimmered fingertips.

Knowing the secrets, they wait for me to ask.

My morning girl, blonde strains pulled back, green eyes squinting,

measures a golden thread, watches my face brighten, and returns my playful gaze;

Even though I know the answer, she wants me to ask: who?

My midday girl, brown curls shaking, intent on perfection, unravels another length; a deep sapphire, like a newborn’s iris.

I cradle my swollen abdomen, light kicks greet my hands. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

She wants me to ask: when?

My midnight girl, through parted black waves, sharpens brass scissors, waiting for my attention to settle against her.

Cloudy, vacant eyes glued to me. I watch her hands, quick and precise, as she cuts the threads with a firm finality.

My hands fall slowly away from a motionless belly. She looks at me, apathetic, plain faced.

She wants me to ask: why?

Boxes

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Surrounded by boxes:

mementos and memories,
bits of a lifetime gathered
and collected, carefully stored.

Weren’t there days
when these collections seemed too few?

Not enough good times;
not enough adventures;
not enough pictures;
not enough.

Various yesterdays mixed together
until it is impossible to tell
one apart from the next.

Is that what makes a life?
The proof of adventures once lived?

Is that enough?

And when does it become too much?

When the photo albums are full?
When the knick knacks are entirely
covered by years of ubiquitous dust?
When the ink of written word
is worn unreadable?

What to do with all the time spent
when there is no longer energy
enough to open the boxes?

Previously Published in “Otherwise Engaged” (2024).