When Teapots Scream
Inside me is a
boiling brass kettle
screaming on a hot stove.
As if a frantic teapot
could be contained
without spilling over.
As if the shrill cry of a
steaming pot bawling
on the burners
could be muffled.
Inside me is tiny China.
Teacups clack
against matching plates.
I mean to control
my tremors and cries, but
I was raised
by soothing chamomile,
and I never liked
the aftertaste.
My mother taught
my mouth to close.
Would you rather
spend the rest of eternity
with your body trapped
on a blazing burner or
with hot water
drowning you
from the inside out?
