O I Would Love a Cup

Black woman in white in desert

[my apologies for not giving credit to an unknown photographer]


O I would love a cup

of porcelain with a handle

deep, to infuse those herbs.

I would also like to drink, hot

mullein, goldenseal, green

and saffron tea,

throat coaters that warm and soften and free

language buried in the scorched mandala

of my lungs.

Send me teas, my sisters, mothers, nieces

that heal and purge my words.

I am not so alone as you might think.

I am not going mad with grief and drink.

A waning moon goes on waning by day,

over the green drench of this high desert,

this wash carved into sand as fine

as any beach, Pacific or Atlantic,

where all the rocks are painted

by aboriginal hands. Jackrabbits

catapult their buttocks

in little arcs, on the find for pickings.

O I would love to sleep in a cool room.

O I would love to drink from a porcelain cup.

Is that a nest in a tree

I See?


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