I think about you, in that clear open glass filled up halfway
I make you room temperature
If I print my finger in you and you’re chilled,
I let you sit countertop.
Then I carry you to Dad’s room, where he’s sleeping always sleeping
Where it smells like vinegar.
I take you to his bedside and I nudge him
He lifts up against pillow with all mustered strength
Put the edge against dry lips, I tilt you in
Brings together two mouth sides
A rusty sigh
Thank you, warm/cool wet, for giving him
At least that.
Thank you, when the time comes that I put you on q-tip
And swab his desert lips,
For giving that relief.
I love you out that tap.
I drink you lots more now, that I want to be healthy.
I know now, if I’m thirsty, I’m already in need.
I think of you when I walk through neighborhoods, clouds shaping overhead.
The mist the fog the rain the snow.
I like to live where you’re everywhere.
Where it’s ocean.
Playwright Heidi Kraay examines the connection between brain and body, seeking empathy with fractured characters. Writing across disciplines and training in diverse theater vocabularies give her tools to live better making art. Her work has been presented in Boise, Idaho, regionally and in NYC. Recent plays include How To Hide Your Monster, Rajpurr: Tale of a Tiger, Slap! A Beaver Tale, and New Eden. Recent publications include Dramatists Magazine, Writers in the Attic and ZO Magazine. Heidi holds an MFA in Creative Inquiry, Interdisciplinary Arts from California Institute of Integral Studies and is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America. www.heidikraay.com.