dropping into the wave. seeing your own shadow rising up, gray against the water. what is frightening? the feeling of riding a roller coaster without rails, the knowledge that your delicate skin and bones can be swallowed up by the froth, jetsam and whim in which you steep.
little tea leaves, go forth. permeate. let your flavors muddle and meld with the heat, the water prepared just for you. your black twining oils rising to the surface to greet the lips that will savor you. forward fold, feel it in the knees, let them bend as your head hangs heavy toward the core of the earth. deep center, deep magma, pendulum swinging ever closer to the pins. one by one, echoing in the massive memorial chambers of france. proving theories as the world spins faster.
we used to hold the shells to one ear, to hear the ocean. we used to drive with tea cups in our hands, and never spilled a drop. laughter, hot tea, swilling and threatening to scald us in our school clothes, our sunday bests. black, green, checker board, the rules were left where they belong. when we got to the water’s edge, we watched little feather heads drop into sneering curls and rip tides. pressing down as they sailed along, gliding down her salty thighs and jumping ship when she noticed them.
shading our eyes wth beveled hands, as if saluting the sea’s consorts — the ones she spared — we smiled with red lips, cat’s eye lenses and cotton blouses tied at the star of our ribs. gingham. bike wheels spinning. bottomless tea cups. jasmine purring in the kettle. watching the brave battle on.
little tea leaves, go forth. permeate. let your flavors muddle and meld with the heat, the water prepared just for you. your black twining oils rising to the surface to greet the lips that will savor you. forward fold, feel it in the knees, let them bend as your head hangs heavy toward the core of the earth. deep center, deep magma, pendulum swinging ever closer to the pins. one by one, echoing in the massive memorial chambers of france. proving theories as the world spins faster.
we used to hold the shells to one ear, to hear the ocean. we used to drive with tea cups in our hands, and never spilled a drop. laughter, hot tea, swilling and threatening to scald us in our school clothes, our sunday bests. black, green, checker board, the rules were left where they belong. when we got to the water’s edge, we watched little feather heads drop into sneering curls and rip tides. pressing down as they sailed along, gliding down her salty thighs and jumping ship when she noticed them.
shading our eyes wth beveled hands, as if saluting the sea’s consorts — the ones she spared — we smiled with red lips, cat’s eye lenses and cotton blouses tied at the star of our ribs. gingham. bike wheels spinning. bottomless tea cups. jasmine purring in the kettle. watching the brave battle on.
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