She makes a Cup of TeaA Poem by Sel WhiteleyI watch her hands tremble Like windswept, unknowable flowers drifted too far from the soil bed.
She shakes away the excess crystals, the tasteless, white nothing cascades from the never-quite-silver spoon into the stained mug. her sublime nails are glossed beyond perfection by nailpolish, that diamond in the platinum ring glints in the television's halflight which shows the Gaelic League game. I could find in the white satin of their scars untold stories, feel their heritage and history, how small flower like hands can be snapped, broken, forced into unspeakable corners and crevices, how the slower pulse is testament to the cruelty of men but I only watch sugar falling like tears or snowflakes on the last winter flowers. © 2011 Sel WhiteleyReviews
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Added on April 21, 2011Last Updated on April 22, 2011 Author
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