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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).

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.