Poetry

They don’t make memories like that anymore…

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The newness of Saturday morning
still lies upon lips.
Pomegranate and mint leaves
perfume the moment.

A drop of water, steady in suspension,
reflects a smile between girl and boy.

This fickle flash,
malleable as smoke circles in air streams,
revives a remembrance
crisp as coal.

You used to say I was a sketch.
Charcoal pencil rubbing white pages.
Unshaded ribbons
around twisted branches.

Now, with misshapen limbs
I separate east from west,
and pretend not to notice
sooted fingertips against earlobe.

Mislaid images of a morning,
fragmented.

I never told you
how I like my coffee.
Didn’t want you to have that piece of me
spread on bread to satiate appetite.

I prefer you drink me,
let me bitter,
scar taste buds,
embed my essence
deep in your mouth
to tongue
until next we meet.

You look at me,
weary eyes across coffee cups.
Without a word,
call me your champion.
Steal a kiss,
tart to taste.

Leave the flavor of this moment,
imperfect,
unfinished,
for me to savor.

“They don’t make memories like that anymore…”is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).

Upon Waking

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I slide into hot
afternoon, the heat
slipping between us,
your lips devouring mine,
bodies distorting
against one another.

Perhaps it was just sex.

An outburst
of frustration and
pent up aggression,
of teeth and tongues,
cock and cunt,
quiver and croon,
a moan of name
under a roar
of profanities as
I let myself cum
again and again
all over you.

Perhaps it signified
nothing.

This morning
I wake alone,
but there was a
moment between
then and now where
you held me
as my naked body
shivered in the
cast of the afternoon
sun, sweat drying
on navel, your arm
supporting the nape
of my neck.

There is a
piece of me,
a shard,
thin and silver,
precious and frail,
I left behind

and allowed
you to keep.

“Upon Waking” is previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.

Safe as Houses

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

You are not my last resort;
I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.

You allow me access to
the far side of your leather chair
and reluctantly gather your grandmother’s
folded quilt and spare pillow from hall closet,
stale and stiff from lack of use.

My intention is not to reclaim
the former comfort of the living room
we once shared, nor reminisce
the passing of a romance which outlasted
its welcome.

It has been a long time
since you have found
my endearments in the form
of wet towels on the floor
or shoes left in the hallways.

But you don’t have to love me anymore
to let me sleep on your couch.

I can cook you breakfast
without imagining your fingers
sulking the lip of my jeans
and I can pretend there
was never a time my body
folded like paper under your fingers
as I sit across the table from you.

We can deny the last two years
of pelting rocks against plaster walls
until they were unable to hold up the home
we painstakingly pieced together.

We can pretend we don’t
remember the full moon we crushed
into a single stone that shone greater
than the sun when held in our cupped hands.

Despite the comfort of the way you
arch your eyebrow and the familiarity
of my name on your tongue,
I know how it will end.

I’ve seen this episode more than once.

It is only for a couple of days
till my feet stand sober,
until I can find a shelter for tired eyes,
a place to boil my water.

Soon we will resume our steps
in opposite directions,

and brick our skeletons
into the wall where their
rattle will eventually
shudder to a bare tremor.

“Safe as Houses” is previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012.