poem

Hibiscus

The chain-link fence made diamonds
of the world like the ones
in her sketchbook
around faces, needy faces.

In the kitchen she drank the black
coffee he made the day
before noticing spare
drops. She took
the sticker off
the apple, sliced it, stirred
the oatmeal, tied her
shoes. The collapsing
container feeling was like hot
water on her hands.

She washed
the dishes in the dark, staring
out a window
facing a wall. Her eyes
went to the spray paint on the grass,
fine dust like an early snow.

A dream from the night
before, not wanting to put the shirt
on because she feared
suffocation like shoes
too tight or words around
her throat.

She went to the porch, seeing
the mysterious gift from the night
before, a droopy hibiscus
she had watered. In the morning's
heat it was standing
tall, proud.
Refreshed.

Tina Kotrla