Passing the cream or the sugar for tea.



it was too hot to drink. even slowly.
we were administering doses of sugar, of cream,
stirring futilely what we dared not bring to our lips.

i think we were speaking about anger,
but all i saw was your red hair,
your pale eyes and hands. your words
that you spoke, and the way you watched me
to see how they arrived in my ears.

with my uncertain fingers
i tried to cup some warmth
but only burnt myself briefly
on the bright silver curve of the cup.
i nursed my blister. we kept
talking,

platitudes, platitudes.
we constructed a nice little river
between us, words and bright promises
that surfaced quick and hopeful
and just as easily sank,
the light no less dazzling
as it broke and scattered.

when we left there was a dark ring
burnt into the table
where the teapot had been. the wood
was burnt, my tongue was
burnt, the bridge was burning,
i was burning, too.





December 2002 © Jesse B. Castaldi