Cup Of Tea?

Before calm,
there’s rattling, train whistle
a long burst of
drawn-and-quartered steam
separated in long locks—
ghost hair
exhaling heavy, panicked in the whine,
hot feet thumping on hot ceramic.

I ignore her; I
unwrap the foil,
place a bag, smooth the string,
no sugar, as usual,
until her pleads and screams
become mine, sobbing
behind the eyes, her rattles
become my hands, her steam
becomes my heart.

Before calm,
I am empty. Relief, relief; I pour her
soul until my cup is full brown,
steeping, steam becoming faint,

and I fill my belly with
concentrated steam until
calm, calm. It is quiet.