KATRINA KAYE

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Image by Gilberto Olimpio

Masterpiece

You are 

a winter’s day,

the mist of breath as I
laugh in the cold,

the cracked footprints
                           fading in snow.

You are

a river trail,

the stretch of limbs from
              cottonwoods that canopy the sky,

the bare branches that streak
shadows under the winter’s sun.

the soft brown earth of the path
                           which leads me from wild to home.

You are

velvet embrace,

the softest of caresses
against cheek and jawline,

a secret in my ear,
                                        a kiss on temple.

A gentle hand stirring the
small of my back.

a sweet invitation to stay in your arms
                           and lingered in your constant gaze.

You are

a peacefulness I didn’t know
was possible.

a home I didn’t know
                                       was needed,

a treasure I never dreamed
was deserved.

A masterpiece,

that magnificent and that simple.

Forever

The sun will glisten upon
the sea and the ripple of water
will remain in motion.

Forever might last
only a matter of seconds
in the right hands.

It might last the night
of shadow and fog and
a chill in the air.

Forever is the five years
we spent pushing and
pulling together.

From the moment you found
your place at my side
to the last night you laid beside me.

So heavy, so still.
The weight of the world
pinning you to mattress.

The rise and fall of your body
a tender reminder
that this is forever.

And I am afraid of forever,
the commitment to sun and earth,
the permanence of it;

the way it does not negotiate
or offer resolve.
The curse of continuance.

Forever we hold our flags,
white and half mast
howling to a moon

that seizes to be despite how much
we know it will forever
be there.

Twenty Poems of Love by Pablo Neruda 

You should have bought me a book of poetry.
You could have inscribed it, scrawled signature,
a pet name, an inside joke to remind me of you. 

Remind me of an acoustic guitar plucked slow and staccato,
             mingled with a baritone voice and words of revolution,
             the fumble of fingers. 

Remind me of a motel room off the highway,
             the road roaring in the backdrop, the air crisp through cracked window
             as I sucked breath through your lips. 

You should have wrapped it in shiny paper before placing it in envelope,
addressed my name on orange folds with your unknown,
but I imagine, careless script. 

 A token to remind me of songs about trains, long and slow,
             my head on your chest listening to the horses of your heart.
             Coffee at midnight and hunger pains at dawn. 

The drip of your sweat falling from your face to mine,
             the cramp in the arch of my foot. It could have arrived a week late
             but still in time to souvenir my shelf, a keepsake to outlast you and me. 

You could have said your favorite poem reminds you of me,
it would become my favorite too and I could recite it
in my head long after I forget the sound of your voice. 

If you told me of one that you found beautiful,
             then when you called me beautiful, I might believe you.
             I’d know you have the ability to recognize beauty. 

The beauty of rose gardens guarded by chain linked fence 
             and two rows of razor wire. The beauty of a white no trespassing sign 
             and the way your eyes twinkled as they sought a way around barrier. 

I was disappointed when my mailbox remained empty.
When the gift you were rumored to give, never arrived.
I wouldn’t even know your handwriting if I saw it. 

I crave the tangible, weight of hard cover, furl of pages, underlined passages.
I would like to see it on my shelf, fulfilling a promise never given,
providing a reminder of our time, a memento of something precious once longed for,
but never actualized.