Poetry by Katrina Kaye : “Danea” “Dulcinea” “Continuance”

Photo by Elizabeth York Dickinson in Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest Issue 1

Danea

You are the drops of summer
rain shimmered gold on skin.

You are the child too young
for my bitter heart,
my yellow bird,
the last bloom of August.

I knew I was in love with you
after the first time
I heard you laugh in your sleep.

Every song is a melody
shaped by your lips.

The same lips that
brush my forehead
when I curl to by side.

The same lips that shot
an arrow at my back
as I walked away.  I was too
proud to turn around.

Your laugh will always be
one of my favorite things.


Dulcinea
                                                    "Those who have been told the truth
                                                             should not be taken for those
                                                                  who have been scorned."

The sound of my name
fell from your crooked lips.

Seemingly foreign,
yet easily interwoven into
ringlets framing my perception.

You speak each syllable sunshine
mixed with the awkwardness of the moon
reflecting brilliance no matter the cadence.

For a fleeting moment,
in the melody of the occasion,
I too am fooled.           I see myself
birthed from clam shell,
goddess gripping bow and arrow,
my words woven into golden strings.

You tricked me.

It isn't just your sycophantic
words and slips of tongue.
It is in the way I see my reflection,
the shine of myself mirrored
in your clouded eyes,
a strange smile readily returned.

The name you give me,            a gift,
more beautiful than I can ever be.

Continuance

You didn't leave a note, but
two days before you killed
yourself you gave me your
grandmother's watch, told me
you never wore the dented heirloom
and it didn't fit your slim wrists,
said, it would look better on me.

When I pointed out that it no
longer worked, you shrugged and
said simply, "time is a silly thing."

You looked in the mirror
before you did it. You cut
off all your hair in misshapen
awkward chunks, some spots
clean to your scalp.  Your mother
decided on the closed casket.

At your funeral I stand
consumed by the list of things I
didn't know about you, overwhelmed
by the uselessness of words and the
futility of remorse, devastated by
the continuance of the ordinary.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Katrina Kay

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s