two bars that lunge away then curve back
It’s cold outside
But not too cold, cool
Maybe, is a better word. I open the faucet, let
A stream of cold water into the usual very small pot, the same one I always use,
Shiny silver metal, two-lined bar handle
Curved back into the pot’s body. I’ve done it a thousand times, more,
This moment, the making of tea, like John.
I place myself in John and feel him doing the same,
Same reach with his left hand, holding the pot like me,
It’s strange – I feel him doing it to,
Feeling the same slight chill in the kitchen, turning the water handle up,
He listens to the shifting pitch as I do now, low at first then edging higher as
The water fills the pot, two of us mixed in me, different only in time,
Separated only by space,
Though his hands are wider than mine,
His arms stronger, his shoulders wide,
Then turning the faucet’s handle down again when the bubbling water nears
Where it’s supposed to be, that level only enough to make a mug:
We so rarely drink tea together.
This pot is too small for the two of us,
Or maybe just large enough – you never know.
It’s handle has two bars that lunge away then curve back
To the pot itself, the part that holds the water.
He left early today: his scent –
The coffee brewed earlier, rich and present,
Hugs me when I walk into the kitchen.
I place the pot on the burner – the one in back on the right.
I can be curious about things, always only the one in back, on the right, or
The world will end, I’m sure. Or something.
Sometimes we argue, you might it call it a fight
But I’m not that way: he blames as only men blame,
Looks to turn the faucet on inside, hot, change the temperature of the water flowing,
Of me inside, violate my thoughts with his scent –
Coffee brewed too long, a something tingy,
Tin flavored, too bitter to drink. I turn the water off,
All of it, punish him with my silence. Win.
Later he sits on the old persian rug below the couch,
The one my mother left me, looks for the touch of my hand with his head –
John is tall and blond and likes the feel of my caress through his hair.
I turn the faucet on again: I know that later we will approach as we lay in bed,
His arms will take me in from behind. I will feel him below, his cock rubbing beneath.
Already moist, I will reach down and take him inside. He will be slow.
The water makes its repeated crescendo,
Small bubbles forming – the moment to turn the knob, dribble the water within,
Into my mug – Earl Gray, honey and milk.
I leave the mug on the counter and walk into the main room, passing by
My collection of teapots in the corridor,
Sit at my desk and wait for my tea to brew.
more of giulia’s work: The World is Full of Teapots – artwork by Giulia Neri