Aliya Dhalla
Tea
She drank her tea five times a day at least
And every time the china cup was raised
To her lips, she took the moment: steamed her mind
With clouds to blot out dark realities.
The taste was bitter – lemons sharp and sour.
But she had found that sugar was too sweet,
A sympathy, a smothering comfort,
And so she switched her brew and chose release,
Escaped in sips of bladed heat to purge
Her insides grey with grief.
We’re fragile things:
Our hearts are porcelain. She knew it well.
The handle snapped and, hot, the liquid tipped
To scald her leg with truths she’d left unsaid.
In fragments, broken crockery shards displayed
Her human guarantee: We break, we bleed.
She’ll pour herself another cup. But hearts
Are not so easy to replace.