“Tea” by by Jehanne Dubrow
by Ernest Hilbert on 12/07/12 at 11:18 am
Tonight I’m fruit and clove. I’m bergamot.
I drop a teabag in the cup and boil
the kettle until it sings. As if on cue,
a part of me remembers how to brew
the darker things—those years I was a pot
of smoky leaves scented with orange oil.
Truth is: I don’t remember much of school,
the crushed-up taste of it. I was a drink
forgotten on the table, left to cool.
I was a rusted tin marked childhood.
I don’t remember wanting to be good
or bad, but only that I used to sink
in water and wait for something to unfurl,
the scent of summer in the jasmine pearl.
Original appearance in The New Republic.
Bill Knott
Aug 14th, 2012
well, this is very very good. such a gifted poet, every poem of hers i’ve read online is superb… thanks for offering such works on your site—
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