September

Warrior

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

There is a problem 
with becoming a warrior; 

a sense of posture and 
responsibility once 
established is near 
impossible to slouch. 

Despite the tattoos, 
scars, and harsh vocabulary 
there are grenades 
crumbling in my chest. 

I carved a line that 
cannot be uncrossed. 
This shield can’t be dropped 
for fear of an exposed vein. 

My bow ever present 
for fear of an empty hand; 
the lullabies I forever 

hummed by heart have 
turned too sweet to pass through  
these split lips. 

The child sacrificed is hollering 
through bones, rattling through 
circulation. 

It has been years 
since the perfection of childhood, 
yet I still curl like innocence 
into the corners of my bed, 
lying still so as not to be found. 

“Warrior” is previously published in September (2014).

 

Wine Glass

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I position his arms around my body
so they hold me like you used to
when we wedged into the twin bed
in your basement studio all those years ago.

I needed only to have you beside me,
to cure the cramp in my gut and
the crackle in my throat.

You are gone,
so I use him.

A restless boy with too much to prove,
who has your height but not your eyes,
who makes me laugh like you once did and
likes to watch me although I am looking away.

I shatter myself into him.
Useless in this skin,
I seek the soul beneath.

It only broke my heart a little when he left,
no more than a wine glass forgotten
on the floor crushed under the klutz of
an early morning stumble toward bath.

“Wine Glass” is previously published in September (2014).

Untethered

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

Katrina Kaye

I am not formed in clay,
malleable to your touch.
You attempt to carve a statue,
a lover, you receive only ash.

I am not the idea you hold of me.
If we were close enough to touch
you would know my scales,
feel the goose flesh prickle your palm,
taste the burn on ready tongue.

I am not the stone set to sculpt;
the moment you hoped to freeze.

I soured, mildewed, rotted in the rain
and warped in the afternoon heat.
The thin paradise you formed
for us is mud never kilned.

It yields under thumbs.

Migratory wings stretch in foreign ways.
How can you say you love the arch of my neck,
when you’ve yet to see it sway loose against collar bone?

When I only now raise my head to
yield against curved grin?

Despite the lines around
my eyes, I have never
been looking for anything
or anyone.

Despite the nails
pierced through my feet,
I only want to soar
untethered.

“Untethered” is previously published in September (2014).