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
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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