making ambrosia tea

Candle-lit burnt fingertips, reaching,
vanilla incense, viable incentive.
He’s leering again, looking at her chest again. 
She’s drowning, fills up his copper kettle. 

She’s drowning, in the pile of his dirty mugs.
Tea bag strings dangling in the breeze, 
anchored by the crust of a four day old tea bag.
She’s reached her boiling point, muted steam breath. 

As she pours both cups she thinks to herself:
Loving him is like holding onto a thread
I can barely feel it and before I know it
I will have lost it in the maze of dirty clothes on his floor.

She gets out the cream and sugar,
they remind her of the upcoming ordinary orgasm.
White like pages of an instruction manual:
insert here, twist this, finish when.

© Fiona Mitchell