English Comfort

 

 

And when you offer to listen,

you do so in the practiced ritual

of making tea.

 

You nod, pausing gingerly, your head

lowered over the kitchen surface.

You tend to me intensely through

the art of this instead,

the bag pressed tight,

strained right against the side

so it teases out darkly.

Bitter and teeth-sucked,

stained white china.

 

A chime of the spoon, the last

word, and then silence.

 

 

 

I find that a lot of my compatriots are much better at making tea than talking about mental health problems, as though one can be substituted for the other.