Succors / A. Martine



There is a kettle-shaped hole

where my heart used to be

a hole in the kettle

just small enough for water

to seep where it should not

a hole so small as to be overlooked

but not small enough

that the kettle, my kettle

could keep soldiering on.


It is ugly, it is worn

dull silver

but here and there flecked

with hearty browns and lively coppers.


It is rugged, weathered

tiptoeing on obsolete

but never one to leave in the lurch

now I am left in a state.


Sometimes cast amid

the dirty dishes

that tend to pile up on

an overwhelmed gal

if it had a mouth

it would probably say

it had been mistreated

and I don’t quite deserve

to justify myself.


Like a friend

who will never say no

I became reliant

on the helping hand

the palm ever outstretched

and that friend, it was worn

rather than broken

testifying to the times

my life has hinged on what came pouring from that rusted spout.


A cup of tea on a rainy day, a cup of tea with a book.

A cup of tea before bed, a cup of tea to wake a tired body up.

A cup of tea to nurse blistered fingers, a cup of tea to un-furrow a lowly brow.

A cup of tea to distract, a cup of tea for something to do.

A cup of tea to bring a manic girl down, a cup of tea to dizzy up a soul.

A cup of tea because it’s there, a cup of tea because why not.

A cup of tea so as not to eat, a cup of tea to distract a starving stomach.

A cup of tea to feel again, a cup of tea to warm thoughts gone cold.

A cup of tea for the burn of it, a cup of tea to press on and blister the skin.

A cup of tea to while away the wailing hour


a cup of tea to while away the tick-ticking of a lonely heart.

A. Martine is a trilingual writer, musician, artist, an Assistant Editor at Reckoning Press and a Managing Editor of The Nasiona. She might have been a kraken in a past life. Some of her fiction and nonfiction can be found on The Rumpus, Medium, Lamplight, TERSE. Journal, Metaphorosis, and Bright Wall/Dark Room, among others.

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