I can't but pour a cup of tea
without recalling him - father -
dead now four years. His a simple
drink - Tetley, Salada, Red Rose.
His directions precise, to those
whose arms, hands, fingers could move, work.
He'd been rendered still, paralyzed
from polio:
Don't let it sit - and dunk ten times, otherwise it's too bitter. One
heaping teaspoon of honey - not more, not less. An ice cube or you'll
burn my mouth, now.
My tea complex,
liberal, pagan - Tazo, Chai,
Yogi - the fixing Hedonist.
Mindlessly, though, I count to ten,
remove the bag, hear his frail voice
rise from the mug, stinging my touch.
I think of Daddy's forgiveness,
offer moist steam up to the gods,
pray he's asked mine from cold, gray grave.