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Bath water

/ Katrina Kaye / 1 Comment

Katrina Kaye

She turns,
belly to porcelain,
white to white.
The bath water turns cold.

She hears him playing.
The gentle rhythm
of childish laughter,
echoing down the hall.
She shivers.

Her eyes turn inward.
With slippery fingers,
she grasps the side of the tub,
and sinks under water,
but still she can hear him.

Only an apparition come
to tease a lonely woman.
She never wanted much
other than to hear the sound
of her boy’s laughter.

Her hair halos her face
in a cloud of chestnut.
Just a sliver of nose and lips,
resting on the surface.

She sips in humid air.
The laughter evaporates.
Eyes open underwater,
The world is blurred.
The sounds of childhood
faded.

“Bath water” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).

Touch

/ Katrina Kaye / Leave a comment

Katrina Kaye

I.

Though I have not
felt his hands,
I imagine them cold,
like my grandmother’s.

Paper thin skin loose
over rounded veins,
Ice to the touch,
gentle as baby powder.

II.

My hands are always cold,
an untreatable
hereditary condition.
My grandmother shared my fate,
hands turning
from white to blue,
numb until the pain
when the blood flows again.
Always cold.

III.

Their hands are misshapen.
This grayed man
with his large paws
and patient one toothed grin.

He rubs his hands
together, stoking
a fire that has long
abandoned his veins.

Her yellowed fingernails,
a mangled band aid.
It is dirty, old,
it needs to be removed,
the cut revealed.

Expose water winkled flesh.

I imagine her hands
must be warm,
like her temper,
nails sharp as her tongue.

Two lovers mixing
to a temperate balance
lasting over 68 years.

IV.

He shares
the patience and stillness.

He touches her skin,
as her hands drop.
They are gray and they are blue.
They are cold.

“Touch” is previously published in Rabbits for Luck (2016).

what we brought

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

The moon’s calm broke,

spilling elusive shades
over the sky’s backdrop.

I remember how we hurried.
Skirted over rocks and rivers,

caught butterflies in our teeth
and squeezed grasshoppers in our toes.

It was minutes till sunrise,

when the world was at its blackest.
We were enveloped,

just the two of us,
stolen from the wake of the world.

With slippery fingers

we climbed the crevasse,
hoping arms would not give out

demanding our gasps and split fingernails
lift us just a little bit higher.

Upon the apex,
we watched rising mist
begin to sink beneath the orange glare
of a breaking sun.

It was the first time you told me
you loved me.

We sat at the edge of the world,

hanging our feet off granite ledge
and tried to touch the surreal with

impulsive fingers still flecked
with green and bits of insect.

“What we brought” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014).