Apricot Tea with my Grandmother

Apricot Tea with my Grandmother

Ivy Penwell

Her favorite necklace tapped against the pot
and made a little tune. It sang as she leaned
over, and I remember that I thought,
“I wish I was a woman of routine.”

Grandma grabbed an oven mitt and slid
it over her cracked, pink little hand.
Then she poured. The boiling water melded
with the leaves and dyed the whole pool tan.

The smell of peaches slowly drifted up.
She brought warm porcelain, a chestnut ocean.
Honey turned the tea as yellow as my cup.
It rolled down my throat in slow motion.

I wear the necklace, but the honey’s shelved.
It’s not the same when I pour the tea myself.

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Ivy Penwell
Poet & Student