...each memory is lit
by its own small moon - a snowberry,
a mothball, a dime - which regulates its tides
and longings.
· Don McKay, Finger Pointing at the Moon

oolong, green sencha, wild orange,
rooibos, bakeapple, vanilla caramel.
a small cupboard filled with the smells
of teas mailed to me by my mother,
who takes tetley orange pekoe
sweetened with condensed milk.
she always leaves a mouthful
unfinished in her cup; growing up
my first curious sips of tea
were cold and bittersweet
from a mug beside the kitchen sink.

my kettle whippoorwills me awake
and i realize, drowsily, that in the
five minutes since i plugged it in
i have slipped asleep,
steeped in dreams:

two summers ago, touring museums
with a pocketful of satsumas, we saw
The Artful Teapot. in the parking lot
my peel fell off in one long pirouette;
i photographed it on the asphalt.

too many of my memories
are fastened flimsily to photographs. flipping through
makes me lonely, forgetful - i never remember as much
when i visit a museum by myself

surely some tangible sentiment or sediment is preserved
from a summer brimming with souvenirs

but in a jigsaw-puzzle box
filled with badly-folded maps,
a broken pocketwatch from camden lock,
teacup potsherds and clay pipe fragments
salvaged from the south bank of the thames
and miniature postcards of pulteney bridge,
i find only bits and pieces of us
and dust.

clementines uneaten too long
mildew the colour of the moon,
cocoon into ghosts
as shapeless as teabags,
fit only for the breakfasts
of butterflies.

she called a cab. i could not
remember my address. i asked her
to keep her teacup: round, blue,
secondhand. she dropped it in her purse
unrinsed, a little bitterness
still in the bottom. on its underside,
"made in people's republic of china."

(come all the way from china
doesn't mean as much
as it did once)

she closed the door behind her
and i put the kettle on,
called in sick,
sipped oolong,
listened to music,
took pictures of tissues.

after which our separating selves become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed memories
· E. E. Cummings