Chamomile tea; and she
By Joy Willow
steam rises
still
from swan-neck
spout,
teapot dream of
unbroken bowls -
breakfast
arrested mid-sip;
chamomile quiets
the nerves
of shaking
hands, “and she” stirs
sugar with the
long spoon,
spreads butter
with the proper knife,
the bread is
salted, broken,
dissolved on the
tongue
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