From a metal kettle dulled with
habit, grey whisps of steam curl
like aged locks defying orders
of a milk-ivory comb through her hair.
Steam that twists with the aching
currents of a river once close and now
decades away in a land once hers and now
seen only against the silence of closed lids.
With coarse hands she pours a full cup,
warmth coaxing out fragrant familiarity,
and gives it to me.
