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The Life of Teabags
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The Life of Teabags
We nestled the Teapot
Bed and Breakfast on our way to
Holy Island whose lone road
immerses in water all day in high tide.
We'd just paraded on Guy Faulke's Day
or Bonfires Day, the twisted British
holiday, in support of explosions. We
bathed together in the quirky bathroom
with a frog toilet paper roll holder
and a cross-stitched reminder to please
be neat not to tinkle on the seat.
In that little tub we squeezed,
you, lying on my bosom,
your genitals buoyant on the surface.
I washed your scalp
where that miraculous brain
prunes in its own juices.
I sponged your chest;
you, my knees and vulva.
We stewed
and kissed each others' reachable parts
steeping in porcelain...
the brew chilled from our drawn-out washing.
We stood, wrapped in a naked hug
a curl of smoke
in the stinging post-mist of fire and rain.
-By Heather McKee Hurwitz
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