I walked through the door, climbed
the stairs and in every bed I dreamt
your dreams. I peeled the brown
vinyl off your chair until I saw its
red leather skin, smelled you in
the walls and blue wool carpet.
I gathered your skin cells in a small
basket and lapped milk from the old
ringed tub upstairs. I grazed my
finger cutting vegetables in your
kitchen. The flap bled into the juice
of the tomatoes. I didn’t tell anyone,
but sucked it all day long. At lunch
I licked my fork like it was you,
the tines your tongue. Let me sit
on your lap in the red leather
chair. I need to put my fingers
on your lips as you tell of Henry’s
irreversible loss. Pull me close
and whisper in your drunken
slur, It’s okay, doll. I don’t know you
but everything’s going to be okay.
Tina Kotrla lives in a little old house in Houston where she writes and draws as often as she can. She enjoys getting in trouble with her nieces and going for long walks with her three dogs. Her most recent work involves drawing on vintage photographs of forgotten family and friends from the 19th century. A flight of her poems appeared recently in Queen of Cups.