Poetry

Now Available: No Longer Water by Katrina Kaye

/ Katrina Kaye

It’s finally here!

Pick up a copy of my newest chapbook released from Echobird Press!

No Longer Water is a collection of poems welcoming raw emotion regarding the process of aging mindfully into a truer self. Here, aging is regarded as a gift rather than a burden. In particular, a woman’s personal journey from who she once was to who she is now. With growth, either physical or mental, there are aches and discomforts that hurt to the core. This collection allows the aches to blossom. Discomforts become fuel to grow without outside influence. The speaker is no longer looking outwardly but inwardly. In this journey through poetry, there is a momentous shift where the mind, body, and soul understands both the trials and challenges of maturity, along with the rewards. Ultimately, life is a gift. The journey is tranquil, enlightened, and blessed, even if the trail is muddy.

Follow this link to order directly from the publisher (the price is cheaper than Amazona and B&N). My book, no longer water, is in the lowest row.
https://echobirdpress.com/shop/

Echobird Press Bookstore

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Imprint

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

My body is tight in
the stillness of dawn.
I long to touch toes,
to have purpose in my reach.

I can feel your imprint
in the bed beside me,
and I know it is probably
the craze of mourning but
I swear I heard you in the
next room.

I do not open my eyes.
I refuse to look for you
and allow the knowledge of
your absence.

I prefer this gentle
hallucination. The shift
of muscles in
early morning to bind me
inside the comfort of yesterday.

“Imprint” is previously published in Saturday’s Sirens (2020).

Slice of Thigh

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Your hand loitered too long
against the scar on my thigh.
A slim trench of fluttered skin
hidden in the darkness of our bed.

I felt the graze of fingertips
skulk back and forth
as you became aware
of wrinkled depression,
a gash healed over with tender tissue,
not forgotten, and never mentioned.

You stumbled upon secret slice
as sharp as emerging tooth,
as though neglected stretch of skin
remained hungry and eager
for the affection of fingers.

You, with your stubborn curiosity,
said no words, only replied
in soft caress. You lingered
over this mark as though trying
to heal it with the heat of your hand,
lending the question as to whether it is something
you love or long to erase.

“Slice of Thigh” is previously published in Open Minds Quarterly (2022).