Friday, March 18, 2011

Fever tea

(based on suggestions from @GretasTARDIS, @mindlessmunkey, @skippy_2, @iFigaro2u, @ernmalleyscat and @realnixwilliams)

Morning is dark in silhouette

mug shot of tea, side-on.

Ribbon of red and brown

scoops curved tears

in a length of satin

colour of dropped leaves.

Autumn stews and curls

in a dusty summer cup.

Noise and language

raging voices shout

out yellow and black

90s video clips. Turn it off

I can’t deal with big pants

and rap breaks this early.

Snap it shut and listen:

there’s breathing in.

Hear warmth blister,

dry crusts revolve wet heat

evolve boiling oceans

like salamander’s new feet

find new hot steps.

Brew uncommon worlds

with incredible sadness

new feet in damp sand.

Mouth sharp as a coin

Sucked iron and dried

out last night’s wine.

Sure as maybe: press notes,

sing hot milk fevers

warm cups instead of newborns.

Bare porcelain hands

can cradle space


Today’s poem is based on suggestions from six peeps:

  • @GretasTARDIS: “dusty cups!” (No prizes for guessing what you're watching, Squeak.)
  • @mindlessmunkey: “Evolution”
  • @skippy_2: “The incredible sadness of sand.”
  • @iFigaro2u: “autumn & clouds”
  • @ernmalleyscat: “mug shots”
  • @realnixwiliams: “90s music videos”

Written while listening to Fever Dream by Iron & Wine on repeat.

It is strange when your children don’t need your body to survive any more. I never felt my body was so useful as when I was breastfeeding. All that milk and fumbling and sleeplessness seems like a fevered dream. I am awake at 5am, just like when my boy was a tiny mass of misplaced instincts. But he is asleep, and will ask me in his own voice for Weetbix and Vegemite toast (and possibly "cake!") when he wakes up.

Instead of a tiny warm head, I hold my teacup in the morning dark.

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