I thumb my choices–hibiscus sachets,
envelopes of rooibos, earl grey tins–
as the ceramic pot and baby steam and screech.
Tea will find our morning
in this month of nights.
No scones or clotted cream,
but it's warm and it's mine. Loose leaf,
infused, a mesh globe spinning slightly,
atmospheric pink, then crimson.
I buckle his stroller, we escape house arrest.
Fresh air, hot tea, cures all things.
Afterwards I couldn't recall
how the tea splattered on his fleshy arms.
Tea like machine gun spray.
His skin burned white, not the red I imagined.
Silent for the first time that morning,
his face not pained, but seeking.
Before words, his eyes ask
The white-hot pain didn't make him cry,
but knowing who was holding the cup.