Thirty Minutes Ago, I Made Tea

The taste of tea when it sits too long is
Bitter or sour or everything you feel when
You eat a mouthful of dirt. It’s metallic and smooth
And, at the same time, it’s filled with pebbles and
The grit of decades beneath the crust: sedimentary
Shit. Maybe that’s just the taste of cold. It
Seeps into liquid like it seeps into air, as
Patiently but as suddenly as cartoon quicksand.
It’s the same way I fall asleep: slowly and then
Desperately and then I wake up to a screeching
Flock of ravens just outside the window — just
Thirty minutes before the alarm is set to scream.

And SCREAM and SCREAM and SCREAM
Because I snooze it until I can’t. Just like the cold.

Stay gold,
Sabrina