Steam
Belly bloated with mint leaves. Brew for a minute or two. She sets two slipware beakers on the counter. The blue ones with navy swirls. Again, though she knows hers will sit alone. She is not still. She watches: the clock on the wall, the watch on her wrist, her phone. Sits, sighs, stands. Slices a lemon paper thin. The triangles almost transparent when she inspects them. Drops a slice in each beaker. Wraps her hands around me, checks that I keep well. I am warm still, but the mint will wilt, I want to say. A moment longer, it will wilt. She must have sensed my unease. She lifts the lid, spoons the leaves. I exhale in relief. She waits. Stands, drums her fingers on the counter. In moments like these, I wish to comfort her. To stretch and pat her hand. Cool her worries. Soon she will drop thick honey into her beaker. Just for her, not the other. Soon she will lift me, tilt me, smile at the rising steam. Soon she will take her beaker out of sight. The other will sit here, next to me, cold. Empty.
eyebright (1)
the blade cuts
tender stem
i slip the sprig
between the pages of a poem
press them shut
on my way to you
the book hangs heavy
against my hip
in the darkness of my bag
bright eyes follow your words
expose the imposters
memorise your honesty disguised
as fiction
they’ll (un)pick your truths for me
bury my doubts
in shallow ground
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