Sunday Tea
I sat down to tea with Sunday
And he was nothing like I thought he’d be.
The chairs in his porcelain drawing room
Felt rickety and plush, musty velvet in
Gaudy chartreuse. We drank out of
Eggshell cups thin as bird’s wings, with
Veins like a bat. He served cookies shaped like
Pineapples, for hospitality, I guess, but they tasted
Of ginger, which was strange but pleasant at the same time.
We said little, but our conversation was still
The best I’ve ever had. I think we said more with
Our silences than either of us had said in a lifetime.
After the tea was all gone and we couldn’t eat any more cookies,
He went and got my jacket from the front closet and walked
Me to the door to say goodbye. I left alone and walked home
Under the gray sky. You know, there’s a chance
He might invite you over some time, one of these days,
And if he does, you should go. He has this way of making you think
About things you never thought about before, of seeing colors in yourself
You never noticed. The cookies aren’t too shabby, either.
And the tea — the tea glowed when I drank it like some sort
Of fantastical algae; magical little flowers floated in it,
and they tasted like honey and truth.
That taste still lies on my tongue
Like a fabulous itch.
Manuscript
Slanted right, leaning left
With a gap between your teeth, when
You were just a child you wrote
Tomes of your own language.
You are a letter sent to
Everyone, you are the box of
Letters in the box of a station
In the tower of a clock,
You are the half-scraped sticker
On the post of the streetlamp,
You are
The very words
You speak.
Remember
Every
Star
In
The sky
Proves
That
You
Are
Here.