Tea
Tiffany Atkinson

You made me tea
while I shook the rain from my jacket.
You stooped to fit into the kitchen
but handled the cups as if they’d been
the fontanelles of two young sons
whose picture sits in the hip of your 501s.
We spoke of – what? Not much.
You weren’t to know how much your touch
with the teaspoon stirred me,
how the tendons of your wide, divining hands
put me in mind of flight.

You wouldn’t have known
when you bent to tend a plant
that your shirt fell open a smile’s breadth.
You parted the leaves and plucked
a tiny green bud. Best to do that
with the early ones,you said.
I thought of the salt in the crook
of your arm where a fine vein kicks.
Of what it might be like to know
the knot and grain and beat of you;
the squeak of your heart’s pips.

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