Katrina K Guarascio

Katrina K Guarascio is an educator, writer, publisher, artist, and community organizer. A lifelong creator, she has been published in various ezines, magazines, and anthologies. She also spent time on the performance stage, touring across the country in 2011 and participating in NPS in 2015, before hanging up her microphone. She is the author of two chapbook collections, two out of print collections, and three current books through Swimming with Elephants Publications, LLC. Katrina lives gratefully and happily in New Mexico with the love of her life. She continues to write, perform, and publish her own writing on the website Flower and Sun.

Tiny Tragedy

the house wakes
an old man
with tired bones
clicking into place
an echo with
no consequence

I am losing my words
I know it now
a piece or two
every morning

a memory that does
not wake
with my body

tiny tragedy
tiny loss
a step at a time
a moment too long
and suddenly
it adds up

too fast
it ends


He used to bury me in the sand;
I was comforted
by the weight on my body.
How the beach cradled me,
the earth held me.

I never suffered the thought of claustrophobia
or the fear which comes from restrained limbs.
The sand,
a thick covering,
an oscillation of waves.

The dirt was not so different.
Cool against my skin and so soft,
softer than sand,
sweeter to taste,
more consoling in the way
it held every part of me.

I could have fought it,
squirmed and struggled,

But lying there,
a well nourished seed,
letting each shovelful of soft
thick dirt fall on my body.
The weight steadily increasing
like a lover’s embrace.

I didn’t think about murder.
I thought about the earth, one spoonful at a time,
devouring me.
The cradle of mouth around my limbs.
The ease of acceptance.
I thought about childhood and hot summers and you.
I closed my eyes,
I slept.

I am waiting for the
alcohol to leave my system.

I know I will feel
alive again once
my blood is new baptized.

You see,
I forget, at times,
during the merriment of
intoxication, that alcohol
at its heart

is a depressant
and that I,

at my heart, am prone
to broken glass and bruised lips,
lonely basements and stray cats.
That I am nothing more than
another painted face
and missing tooth.

This is merely the remnants
of alcohol in veins;
it is not personal.
It is a cross I drag
between curse and revival.

You would think
I would know better
after all this time.

I did not leave you

due to the dirty dishes
or unrepaired holes in
the plaster. It was the
silence of your eyes.
Their passion drained
of all its red, the red
I once watched crawl
across your bed, before
it was our bed when I
was still chasing
dreams of migration.
It was the daily dregs
which cut the ropes of
our first love. The
terrible expression of
your day sipping cheap
beer just to get you
to sleep. It was when
we stopped going to bed
together and just slept
in the same place among
slightly different time
lines. The crack it left
was too severe and too
close to the skin. My
temperament dulled, the
anxiety that kept me bent
over kitchen sink has
dissipated and now I let
the dust collect on window
sill till it turns to mud
in the morning dew.

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