He smiles his jazz bar smile,
filled with double bourbons and inhaled smoke,
standing in our midwestern
morning kitchen—the
water for my tea is boiling
and I catalogue all my choices:
Assam,
first flush Darjeeling
Jasmine with star flowers
pink Rosehip, like dawn’s fingers.

“I love to see you do that,” he says. I’m pouring
the boiling water out of its copper vessel
into my white porcelain pot.
I slosh it around, then dump the water
into the sink. “What? Scald the pot?” I ask
smiling my library smile,
filled with illuminated manuscripts
and calf-bound volumes.

Taking care both of us,
to think only
of the Western ceremony
of morning tea.