Poetry

August Afternoon

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

We dance in
the heat of the kitchen.

Van Morrison plays lazily
from the living room,

me,

paper thin sun dress,
void of the undergarments
that would only cause
lines of sweat in already
wrinkled skin,

catching the breeze between
bare legs;

you,

with the grease still in
the creases of your hands,

holy jeans hanging low
on bare waist,

crooked smile plays
on parted lips;

we dance.

You would not take
no for an answer,

would not acknowledge
my casual stumble
over your bare feet,

toes somehow chilled
despite the summer heat.

We sway across kitchen
counters singing along
to every word,

hair sticking to temples,
mouth dry save for
the song on tongue.

You tell me I am
beautiful and, in that
rare delusion of August,

I believe you.

“August Afternoon” is previously published in Wingless Dreamer (2021).

Recovery

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

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

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.