Poetry: “Tea” by Ken Haas

We went to London once a year and,

aside from conjugate acts in wayward places,

there was one thing she loved doing

in that conurbation only, made personal

by her novel use of accoutrements

(strainer, drip tray, sugar tongs, cozy)

and especially how the milk was introduced—

smallest possible liquid dollop

that pricked the fuscous pond,

dove for a skipped heartbeat,

then resurfaced in one of three avatars:

mushroom cloud,

gossamer of cracked glass or,

to her repulsed fascination,

simply itself, the unaltered bolus.

Questioning would be like asking Magritte

what’s with the derby, or how come the apple

and why green.

Actually, someone did ask him. He said

everything we see hides another thing

and we always want to see what’s hidden.

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