Let’s name this afternoon after a Miles Davis song
Let’s read your tea leaves.
Read them in a language we don’t know—
Persian or Hungarian—even if the tea
is from India and you are drinking it
out of a cup from Sweden.
The one my grandmother gave me
when I moved into my first apartment.
Before I knew you. Before I knew me too.
Your leaves are lush, dappled in sunlight.
Your leaves sing the rhythm of the rain.
Your leaves are shaped like a continent
or a birthmark—and the sheen
of a beloved cello.
I rub my finger
along the cup’s rim, hum
Let’s read them like braille
with our hands. Let’s read them out loud,
till we can’t help but notice
the sky is drenched
in some kind of blue.
Editor’s Note: The title of this poem provides a wonderful framework on which the imagery of the narrative can riff, allowing just enough emotional space to sing.
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