Tea Before Dawn

A small pot of lemongrass tea brews at

five o'clock in the morning. A shaven head 

bobbling past in hasten steps. 

Past the room with the warm pillows and the 

gray blanket with the polka dots scattered in white. 

Past the leather couch, brown like espresso. Past the Christmas tree of

lights and memories and her children. She unravels out of her 

cords of void and falls, embraced in the arms of the cool kitchen, before 

dawn greets the world with her

 light. 

A girl weeps softly beneath the gray blanket,

for dreams of pins and 

needles have plagued her sleep.

Peeping through the polka-dots, she sees the

figure fidgeting with the pot. 

Knees buckling and 

unbuckling.

Frail white hands drumming on 

the cool granite counter. 

Toes dancing above the hard wooden 

floor. 

The sound of humming 

escapes the shaven head’s 

lips. 

Her head bobbing to the disoriented 

beat.

The weeping girl, watching

 tiredly.

The girl wrapped in the big polka-dotted blanket,

pillow beneath her head, bundled on

 the espresso brown couch 

feels a lump stiffening in her throat.

Muffled tears make it hard to 

swallow. The lump 

turns to cold stone, 

lodged in the throat that 

is trying to swallow, to cry, to

speak. 

The bitter

taste of copper reality in her 

mouth makes the stone soften to 

a ball of clay. Head about to 

explode, nauseated

from 

a fever, no sleep,

and from a stranger 

humming awkwardly while making 

tea.

The girl shimmies out of the gray 

blanket and tries to get on her 

feet. 

Numb feet 

stinging —

stinging and 

tip-toeing 

on shards of broken 

glass. 

Could you please help me— 

The question was croaked out a second too late.

She’s gone.

The small pot remains fixed on the countertop.

Tea gone in the sink,

tea leaves scattered on the stove.