Dangerous lives,
these quiet ones who
steep their feelings
like tea, untasted
and stored deep,
brewing at a low simmer,
until the pungent odour wafts
– no, it assails the room,
a chemical chess game
where all the moves
involve surrender.
A dozen knitted tea cozies
and proper gloves
and all the tea in China
can’t prevent the rising heat
from wanting to be sipped,
sucked out of the saucer,
lapped and fully tasted.
This the aromatic call,
the scented unintentional plea,
the secret flavour
blended over hidden fire.
Hot tea can burn,
numbing any hope of satiation.