MARIAM RIETVELD
there are no tea cups in heaven
TRUTH
BE TOLD: I KEPT POURING.
THE WATER. THE RITUAL. THE LIE.
STEAM MAKES A GOOD GHOST, YOU KNOW.
I SWORE I SAW YOU
IN THE CURL OF IT —
YOUR HAND REACHING FOR THE HONEY JAR,
YOUR LAUGH STUCK
TO THE EDGE OF THE MUG.
THE TEAPOT STILL BREATHES WHEN I TOUCH IT.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
A HEARTBEAT I BORROWED FROM GRIEF.
I NEVER SPOKE UP WHEN YOU SAID
‘IT’S GETTING HARD TO STAY.’
I JUST SAID
‘TRY THE ROSEHIPS.’
GOD, I THOUGHT THAT WAS ENOUGH.
LIKE TEA COULD FIX A SOUL UNRAVELLING
IN FRONT OF ME.
THE LEAVES SWIRL AT THE BOTTOM NOW —
PROPHECIES IN TAN AND BLACK,
BUT THEY DON’T SPELL YOUR NAME ANYMORE.
THEY SPELL MY FAILURE
IN CURLS OF STEAM.
DO YOU REMEMBER
HOW WE USED TO ARGUE ABOUT NETTLE?
YOU SAID IT TASTED LIKE BITTER EARTH.
I SAID THAT’S THE POINT.
BITTERNESS MEANS SOMETHING IS STILL ALIVE.
BUT YOU —
YOU WENT QUIET.
AND I WENT ON POURING.
SOMETIMES I THINK THE UNIVERSE
IS JUST A GIANT TEAPOT,
WHISTLING UNTIL SOMEONE LISTENS.
I DIDN’T.
I LET YOU BOIL DRY.
THE STARS ARE JUST SPILLED WATER, ANYWAY —
A MILLION LITTLE APOLOGIES
COOLING ON GOD’S COUNTER.
I WONDER IF YOU DRINK TEA UP THERE.
OR IF THE MUGS SHATTER
AS SOON AS YOU TOUCH THEM.
EITHER WAY,
I STILL POUR TWO CUPS.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
after she left
and i think she must be near, from the way the air hums.
sister. i think about her voice all the time. it’s like a riddle,
how sound can stay after the mouth is gone. my favourite
version is the one where we never stopped laughing.
we sat on the kitchen floor eating burnt toast,
our socks wet from rain. stern morning light
found us like a secret, the kind you don’t tell
because then it might vanish.
she said grief was just another form of hunger.
i said hunger was just another way to stay alive.
if i had the chance, i’d go right to the root of her —
pull her out of the soil, hold her still, say don’t go.
you’d think i’d know how to keep her
with my main medium being memory.
some nights, inclination surges through the window screen,
the wind tasting like tea steam, like nettle, like home.
the kettle sings for no one. i answer anyway.
the cups cool in the sink. i touch the rim and wait
for her to hum, for her to breathe through the heat.
maybe there’s something right about missing her.
that night how she. chest shaking.
tonight my house creaks in reply.
somewhere swings open a gate we all know,
we all want —
and i swear she walks through it, barefoot,
laughing.
Mariam Rietveld lives in Ōtepoti Dunedin and enjoys swimming, school, and hanging out with friends.