the dog
was not mine
but it was
my friend
listened only
to its owner
and to me
the dog
would put its paws
on my shoulders
look me in the eye
and lick my face
and I would stand my
ground, five years old,
much smaller,
unafraid
Teresa
Koso
I'm Teresa and this is my second time here. I mainly write poems as a hobby. I work as a nurse on a pneumological ward, love to travel and hang out with my friends. This year I want to try writing poems about stories and feelings on my grandfather to honor his passing last Monday.
learning to hold my own
I slip through the
sterile halls
floors shiny with the
flimsy motion sensor lights left on at night
stuff my fists into the pockets of scrubs to
hide the shaking
to have them held, not holding, for once
these hands that peel
at the seams of my fingernails
little cuts from yesterday’s cooking all red
and aching from disinfectant
these hands that did not hesitate
as I brushed a patients hair behind
her ear to make sure it didn’t get caught
in the oxygen mask
hands that did not startle
when grabbed as I was about turn around,
silent plea of ‘don’t leave me’
but slowly thumbed a circle
of reassurance as I pulled away
hands that clean stains like memories
brush skin and plastic and metal
and pet wrinkles out of linen cloth
hands still in my pockets, shaking,
shaking now,
hands that, earlier, closed gently
over a shivering bird and
set it on the windowsill
raised in quiet awe as it flew away
hands that smashed into the break room wall,
smearing meal moth guts and
wing powder all across
the white paint
my hands do so much and I
only ever realize
when they are shaking in my pockets
at the end of my shift.