Teacup

An immigrant to this market, placed
upon the shelf of teapots and cups,
cousins of yours; some in boxes, some in dust,
all waiting to be chosen, cradled, and warmed
with steaming tea, steeped to meet the fine line
between tasteless and bitter.

(London – fair and slender, flaunts her white gown;
the swirled handle intricately flowered with little yellow buds.
Seoul’s rose of Sharon wraps itself around her
delicate waist, it’s leaves tickling her open brim.
Tokyo hosts a dragonfly that has perched on his protruding crimson belly;
美しい contrasts in black, proclaiming beauty.)

Glazed white within, a newborn not yet stained
by shadowy black or saturated green,
you wait behind the rest,
behind the boxes and tall pots, hidden
in a shroud of flat black glaze –
naked except for a crooked price tag
telling anyone who looks at you
that you’re only worth three dollars and ninety nine cents.












©Shelley Marie 2012