The Fall of a Sparrow

Childhood

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

Forearms reflect scratches
from childhood tree:

a celebration of skin
still unscathed by the
sting of antiseptic.

The skyline bleeds burgundy
as the sun sighs.

These fire kisses spot the surface
of most precious underbelly,
soft and freckled,

beneath iridescent hues
of motley leaves.

With the voice of a child
fading from my throat,

I ask you how much longer
for pink to flush and fade?
How many eons for cells to gather
upon each other and repair?

I pray for enough
waning light to once again
stretch to tree branch,

gather strength in formative muscles
and pull skyward.

Stars infiltrate the fire in gut,
leaving sky sulking to pitch.

The scratch and bite of brittle bark
recedes to tender touch as I
abandon branches for the
balance of arms.

“Childhood” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).

Photograph

/ Katrina Kaye / 2 Comments

Katrina Kaye

We were captured
black and white,
careless grins
flyaway hair,
back when it was easy
to love
only each other.

Strange how pure
a photograph can be.

If that picture wasn’t
black and white
it would showcase your hair,
red orange
like phoenix feathers,

the straps of green dress
emerald against skin
too white to have ever been
stroked by sunlight.

Instead of all those shades of grey,
you would have been
bright, star shine;
the amber of eyes,
reckless flecks of gold
against locks of flame
surrounding temples;
painted red lips
upon raw teeth
creating a smile too big
to hide the laughter
brimming from throat.

I can’t help but think of the face
I left there.
Smeared smile in
black and white.

The way you looked at me.
The moment
cut
captured.

I was oblivious of your
lashes and longing.
Helpless to the inevitable
fading of photographs.

You were crafted to sparkle.
I was too blinded by
your brilliance to notice
your eyes
only for me.

“Photograph” is previously published in The fall of a Sparrow (2014).

Home

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

I look for you the way I always have.

Listen to your voice
sing incantations of my youth,

eager to hear news of your religion
in the cadence mucked in the back of throat.

They lost you in the backyard.
Misplaced your skull,
body deteriorated into earth.

I miss the way you wrap around me.
A feeling thick as a childhood home,
a place where awkward flows a little more free
and body moves in familiarity.

You spoke of it.

I’ve given up on a search for home.

I focus on climbing your tree.
Washing the smell of your cigarettes from my pillows.
Stretching upwards in long clean arcs
hoping you will feel the tops of my out-stretched fingers.

The imprint of you:
a hollow through the center of me,
only cured by the scent of you in my kitchen,
and the radiation of your body as it sits
three feet from mine.

I search for your bones in my garden,
mud caked and brittle,
hopeful there may be a piece of you there:

a shard I can wear on a string
proudly around my neck,

your souvenir on my chest,

and when people ask,
I’ll say it reminds me of home.

“Home” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).