When she asks if I need anything,
I want to say milk or water or nothing
Something easy to swallow
Unlike this stump,
which has shed so many useless branches,
my throat can no longer grow around the bark
The first time I creak lemon ginger tea
through my tight, nervous pulp,
I wait for the no to seep in
But she boils the water, steeps the bag, and hands off
the steaming mug like it’s a sleeping child
And I cannot reconcile this with the request
I have seen splintered
into a century’s worth of deep cut
rings of disappointment and betrayal and humility
The tea, if it was ever present in my folktales
before, it was only an instrument for
drowning
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