Tea's Bridesmaid

The milk swirls tiny cyclones in my tea.
Butterscotch doesn’t work as an herbicide.
Your brow furrows with wicker-chair-imprint preciseness
at the off-key scrape of the sugar pot lid on the counter,
and the grains tickling the cupped palm of your hand,
while the steam warms the air next to your nostrils,
lingering for the linen scent.
The kitchen takes on cream-colored urges and vanilla sounds.
With a wry smile, I mention Dylan Thomas
and Wales doesn’t seem so far away.
Okay…
Wales is unreachable.
Unless, of course, you are in Cardiff reading this
or you can only read Urdu
(and tides effect only grapefruit).
So take the chill off your chili and cha cha cha!
The cordial jest of despair can’t douse the flame of your anxiety.
My tea steeps in urgent equations.
You giggle uncontrollably
and stare at the Fig in disbelief.
The storm will come and freeze my tea before it’s ready,
and the cup will crack in cinnamon waves.
Time will go by as if by ancestral recipes
(de gustibus non est disputandum).
Though my tea laughed until it spilled its sides,
the light from the kitchen skylight aches in as if it traveled all the way from Wales.