In Your Car at 4am on a Thursday night
The awkwardness of the steering
wheel presses against thighs
as if to balance the round world
between my legs. You were shy smiles
and lowered eyes and I, in the brave
cover of darkness, looked at you longer
when you were looking away.
We were riding crashing waves,
horses stomping though shoreline,
sand left upturned,
and it was no secret
I liked your hand on my knee.
Windows slowly mist with
the heat of conversation,
tongues slip fast over sermons.
At some point we forgot how to breathe.
We were already removed from the pack,
paired off, claimed.
There was no future
on that downtown street,
Only moment, only want,
and the knowledge of your
middle name meant
everything to me.
I want to feel that again
the surge of emotion,
a force of transcendence,
strength, freedom.
I grew past parked cars in empty lots.
Arms no longer tempt, only secure,
hold down, hold back.
I may have stopped curling my toes for you
but there is still a rip torn into lifeline.
A memory healed over,
but a scar remains.
To be child again,
to bleed abandon and
release quickening howl,
in your car, enraptured
all over you.
Bone Collector
She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.
A shard, humerus,
stretch of femur,
attempting to construct
fierce outline.
She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,
recreating what was
left to decay.
Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,
the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until
it’s cracked. She
takes her time.
Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,
roped veins,
threaded muscles,
covering the white
of bone,
creating life,
a strength, a purpose.
With the patience
of glass, she draws
fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.
Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight
to see what could be,
once our construction
is complete.
Halfway
Old friends,
twice lovers,
now just two people
who cameo each other’s lives.
Little in common between
the two of us these days.
You are still the artist,
ever drawing the pictures
from the webbing in your mind.
You teach now and sell work on line,
occasionally making a charitable donation
to those victimized by mother nature’s glance.
I am still a writer
and I still scrawl poetry
on bath walls and alley ways.
People have never paid for my verse,
but that never stopped me.
I make my living listening to sad stories
behind the desk of a doctor’s office.
I am simple,
I am satisfied.
You didn’t mention her once
in the sixteen hours we spent together,
and I didn’t ask. That is not why we met
at that hotel room, halfway between my
New Mexican sky and your New Orleans night.
We fumbled, despite familiarity
and found ourselves in bed eager for
the intimacy we shared one summer four years ago,
eager for the comfort of a friend.
I awoke not to your terrible dreams,
but to you sitting up in bed,
sketching my still form.
Upon my movements,
you kissed me still and we made love again,
eager in the hours of the morning.
You awoke not to my impatient concern
but to the sound of me writing
and kissed my shoulder blades until I slipped back
to your side.
Our time was small,
secure and entirely necessary.
Katrina Kaye is a writer and educator living in Albuquerque, NM. She is seeking an audience for her ever-growing surplus of poetic meanderings. Find her hoard of previously published writing on her website: ironandsulfur.com. She is grateful to anyone who reads her work and in awe of those willing to share it.
