Mar siete azahares, by Ivonne Arias


Seven blossom tea makes
a five and twice blossomed sea.
Brown streaks rumored about the cup,
sluggishly giving chase to tastelessness
as small flowers fed the water
their flavors.Passion flowers for hypertension
rose petals gush against headaches,
chamomile to calm,
lindens lull insomnia,
anise seeds for nausea,
valerian to silence excitability
and spearmint for kicks.
Crests of waves rise and fall
in miniature.
The slightest flicker of the spoon
and tiny waves burst with bloom.
Swirling eddies to and fro,
a restless sea grows.

The sea laps against the edges
of a chipped white mug.
Tea dances at the ledges,
submerging leaves
with the softest of tugs,

As a child does a parent’s burgundy sleeve
when he’s grown weary
and decides it best to leave.

Odd. I see no ships sailing on this sea,
No small painted hulls or wooded masts.
Empty crow’s nest,
No fleet of jailbird mariners,
rhyming foul-mouthed men.

On a fevered sea, few sailors will one see.
But take their absence for fortuity—
at the slightest of thirsts, they’d vanish

Ivonne Arias.

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