(in the style of Li Young Lee’s poem Early in the Morning)
While the faucet escape still is the spout runaway
In water, frothing footloose in bubbles desperate for release,
Before the kettle’s detainee is given duty to steep leaves of tea,
Before the dawning aura spoons honey into the stewing steam,
The sink basin stares facelessly back at me, as I lose my thoughts
Like froth bubbles to air, to dripping of the faucet,
Steady pattering, as do tears from hollowing sockets.
They are not awake, those to whom my blood relates
Entombed, and after whom hotly boils
And for whom freights heavy sighs,
Thick with inner toils, while cries denied slip away
Into the drain below because I know
Father does not wish to sip tea with me, too
Preoccupied by sleep and chasing its dreams.
Mother finds the tea tastes bitterly and so
Draws back the blinds to lighten the room in cloying sweet.
Sister brews fermented, black leaves and cares nothing for my green.
While I sip alone, this mourning, wondering if I could
Escape through the window, into new dawning, and they be there
To catch my fall below, as family finally.
Shall I look elsewhere for company? Two for tea?
Will they notice me take my leave for steeping in love’s safekeeping?
Will they take to seeing or leave me to burn dry on the eye of the stove?
Will they wake when the door creaks,
When the faucet quits the leak, when I’ve found my own road,
When my absence speaks?