Poetry

Person at the Window

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

inspired by Salvador Dali

He always painted her by a window.
A gold thread woven by her brother’s careful hand.

Thin curtains, like the inventions of monsters,
oscillate on either side of her in the breeze like
patient lovers and little ashes.

Amidst sand and gravel glued to canvas,
sways the finery of the broken bridge of a dream.
She stands untouched wrapped in the purity of white
and the blue of a sublime sky shimmering off of the sea.

She holds the skin of orchestras in the head of roses
and picks petals from trembling piano keys.
A symphony in red performed by instruments
birthed on liquid desires.

She remains a meditative rose,
forever at Spanish window ledge,
a faceless dream triggered by the flight of a bee
around a pomegranate one second before waking up.

Previously Published in Vermilion Literary Magazine (2022).

The Nest

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Her eyes are open.
A thin trail of blood leaks from parted mouth.
Pink dress, brown flowers,
hiked around thighs.

She,
curled on her side,
an imprint on soft grass.
One brown sandal clings to limp right foot,
the left, scratched and black bottomed.
She did run,
she did.

He cut the ice from her ears,
severed flesh of ring finger for special jewel
she would have willingly given.

Hand outstretched,
fingers curled,
nails chipped, split.
The other wrapped around belly,
hiding spliced skin.
Blood pools around body
an exposed secret.

A bird, fallen from nest
crushed underfoot.
Broken wings flailed in vain
bead black eyes screaming
louder than her voice ever could.

The nest couldn’t hold her.
Tender fluff of undeveloped feathers,
twisted neck and curled claws.

She lay still,
cicadas buzz in nearby trees.
The temperature is seventy-two.
Sun shines down on yellowing skin,
as a slight breeze brushes strands of hair
from the red slits which once held white stone.

“The Nest” is previously published in The Legendary (2013).

Bricklayer

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I want to be a bricklayer;
something concrete
as opposed to just impression.

I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy.
To show precision in the etch of knuckles,
shaded in darkness.
There was never enough color.

There are so many
ways to look at one thing:

a church is violet against the changing sky,
the horizon set on fire into the back fall.

September sun crests different over
the yellow fields of the east
than the dirt of the city at dawn.

I prefer to paint at night.

I sketch my father twice,
struggling to do justice to the
rashes on the tips of fingers,

but my messages do not form easy.
The images I cross out
are more vital than those kept.

Instead of laying brick,
I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemon
removing the bright from the dark.
Pile one on top of the other.

Inspiration turns illusive
after the initial thread is cut,
displayed, set aside.

Too much coffee and wine,
too many sleepless nights,
strung too high.
Obsessed with ideal.

It is no wonder I always staggered home alone.

Unable to abandon canvas and easel
until the obtainment of perfection.

But how many masterpieces can
one man create?

It is only a matter of time
before I slip from the wall.

A chest wound,
self-inflicted,
in a field of wheat,
like so many I painted.

Surrounded by something
I find
beautiful.

“Bricklayer” is previously published in Catching Calliope Vol 2, 2014.