Katrina Guarascio lives in New Mexico, where she teaches Language Arts, Poetry, and Journalism. She is also the sponsor and coach of two youth Slam Teams and produces a yearly literary magazine of student poetry. Along with many ezine and literary magazine publications, she is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, and one book length publication entitled A Scattering of Imperfections.

Phoenix (Issue 32)

Two Poems (Issue 24)

Phoenix (October 25, 2011. Issue 32.)

It is only from ash
that new wings can emerge.

The smug of soot
on forehead offers
the cleansing of fresh feathers,
burnt orange against blue eyes.

We are ready to ride onward,
watch the slouch
of Bethlehem's beast
and feel the curve of shoulders
as they hover
over the clouds of
yesterday's thunderstorm.

The flash of lightning
stuck us to dirt,
so let us flare like red bird,
let us track skies uncharted and
rip apart
dark formations that blot out sky.

Let the innards leak,
release the flood and from the muck
watch creature birthed.

A second coming
hidden by the thick
of afternoon storm clouds,
casting shadows
on the tragedy of
yesterdays too clearly
remembered.

Let the past burn away,
let it pierce, cloud over, rip open.
Watch the carnage
a little a fire
can do when you stop
paying attention to the
change in temperature.

It is a only a matter of time
before wings once again open to sun.

Table of Contents

Two Poems (January 20, 2011. Issue 24.)

The Nest

Her eyes are open.
A thin trail of blood leaks from parted mouth.
Pink dress, brown flowers,
hiked around thighs,
She
curled on her side,
an imprint on soft grass.
One brown sandal clings to limp right foot,
the left, scratched and black bottomed.
She did run,
she did.

He cut the ice from her ears,
severed flesh of ring finger for special jewel
she would have willingly given.

Hand outstretched,
fingers curled,
nails chipped, split.
The other wrapped around belly,
hiding spliced skin.
Blood pools around body
an exposed secret.

A bird, fallen from nest
crushed underfoot.
broken wings flailed in vain
beady black eyes screaming
louder than her voice ever could.

The nest couldn’t hold her.
Tender fluff of undeveloped feathers,
twisted neck and curled claws.

She lay still,
cicadas buzz in nearby trees.
The temperature is seventy-two.
Sun shines down on yellowing skin,
as a slight breeze brushes strands of hair
from the red slits which once held white stone.

Apple

Fingerpaints on belly,
Draw your future there,
hazel eyes,
rimmed with green.

Draw the moon
we can make love under,
draw the apple ripe
on the limb.
Actualize need and temptation
in the form of careful tokens.

Wrap layers tight about me,
so I can’t feel the freeze
you leave me with.
So clumsy steps
against hardwood and
broken window panes
don’t conquer
me like they once did.

Instead,
hold fast to my skin.
Roll up in my hair,
finger stray locks
removing the dirt of the day
with tentative strokes.
Be gentle in your word play,
patient in this mislaid speech.

My body hungers at times,
My soul, so desperate,
for the sting and slap of unconceivable future.

Hand - here.
Colors dancing from your fingertips
onto the white flesh of belly.