moths gravitate to light and my mother to steel pots
Cincinnati airport and blurred static suburbs
nostrils not quite tuned to star spangled air
oil glazed puddle checkpoints to the grocery store
Little Debbie confections
hand in hand with kitchenware cartons
the pot gleams
black sea currents enveloped in metal
tea leaves swing tick
tea leaves sway tock
a watch pot ballet
passing time on a clock
factory polish dissipates
concentrated cinnamon film fusing with steel
my mother’s two cents?
identity lies within layered lactose stories
4pm: pot on the burner
warmed cardamom milk waiting after
bunny loop shoelaces
popsicle stained laughter
“it’s not a phase mom” black eyeliner
first heartbreaks
seeing my skin through the world’s spectacle
self soothing diary serenades
verbal jabs at life’s current chapter
another tale added
every tea time ballad
