The Ritual
Invite forgetting down for tea, a chat over biscuits
as the sun drowses in its corner rocking chair.
Scribble what she tells you on a napkin
moisten the dry pen tip with your spit.
What she mentions in passing
is golden, sloshed from the kettle
to your cup, chipped china
on its way to cracking through.
Stir it so it clears for a moment
before the splash of milk makes it opaque
as blankets twisting on your feet in sleep.
Add a dash of sugar for the fact
that drinking is also emptying,
a drawing closer of goodbye,
when all she’ll leave in the end
is a ring on the table
a crumble, a thin film of brown
at the bottom of the mug
placed like a thank you in the sink
for some other hands to wash clean.
Like this piece? Join us at Fresh Darlings, a poetry workshop.
