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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).

Fire and Ash

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I didn’t mean to tell you
I love you.

I hadn’t planned on falling again,
so soon.

I was going to stand,
strong and solitary,

Diana among her hounds,
silver bow and arrow poised,

leap from stone to stone,
hunting the wildest of prey
with the keenest sense,

balance tall
on steep slopes,
and gaze across uncharted valleys,
virgin and golden before me.

But your eyes were fire
and I smoldered before you.

I tripped through the brush
twisted my wrist,
broke my bow,
and fell, head first,
into soot and ash
calling your name all the while.

I would have been scared
or angry or ashamed
had you not
slid into the pit beside me,

your hand on mine,
your lips on my neck,
whispering

you love me too.

“Fire and Ash” is previously published in the collection, my verse…, published by Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC in 2012 and A Scattering of Imperfections by Casa de Snapdragon 2009.

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.