Bricklayer
Katrina Kaye
This poem was first published in Catching Calliope Vol 2, 2014.
I want to be a bricklayer; something concrete as opposed to just impression. I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy. To show precision in the etch of knuckles, shaded in darkness. There was never enough color. There are so many ways to look at one thing: a church is violet against the changing sky, the horizon set on fire into the back fall. September sun crests different over the yellow fields of the east than the dirt of the city at dawn. I prefer to paint at night. I sketch my father twice, struggling to do justice to the rashes on the tips of fingers, but my messages do not form easy. The images I cross out are more vital than those kept. Instead of laying brick, I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemon removing the bright from the dark. Pile one on top of the other. Inspiration turns illusive after the initial thread is cut, displayed, set aside. Too much coffee and wine, too many sleepless nights, strung too high. Obsessed with ideal. It is no wonder I always staggered home alone. Unable to abandon canvas and easel until the obtainment of perfection. But how many masterpieces can one man create? It is only a matter of time before I slip from the wall. A chest wound, self-inflicted, in a field of wheat, like so many I painted. Surrounded by something I find beautiful.
More from Katrina Kaye ↓
Her website: poetkatrinakaye
Her chapbook No Longer Water is available through Echobird Press
Submissions are open. If you have a poem you want me to read on the podcast, now’s the time.
I’m looking for the one that lights you up. The one you’re proud of. The one you can’t read without crying. The one that makes you feel something big.
Let’s make space for the one this Fall on One Poem Only.
Deadline is Thursday, July 31.
🍎 Submit Here 🍎
Share this post