The teabag
By D. S. Maolalaí
my guts sink
in spots
on the edge of a teacup,
leaking the brown to water
and milk out of broken
bags. and I am drinking
tea this morning
because you say we’ve run out
of coffee. eating toast
and watching the dog
while she sits at her bowl
and begs. you are gone
already, gone with the last
of the coffee. I break a bag
and feed her, pouring rattles
from the cup. I stretch, finish my tea
and go to the bathroom.
five minutes later
she pokes her head in.
the door
wasn’t latched – it’s broken.
in the hall
the day stands there
and looks at me.
Copyright © 2020 by D. S. Maolalaí.