John Anderson Poet Lyric

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Sideways, Cracked and Tilted

Sideways, cracked and tilted—
It keeps
the posture of a pour,
poised for a kindred hand;
wanting its old woolen cosy.

Its lid no longer settles.
Steam escaped years ago
through a seep
in translucent thin porcelain.

Old hands still find it first,
pushing newcomers aside.
The handle knows its fingers
before kind hands bend to grip.

The matching cups
have wandered elsewhere,
devoid of saucers,
strainers and spoons,
long gone to other cupboards—
or onto other selves.

The old teapot has seen better shelves,
better cupboards, kinder mornings—
yet the tea insists
on tasting better here.
Perhaps the leaves remember
what the hot water won't recall.

A fissure—fine enough
for light to peep in—
runs where warmth
once spoke in vapor
of the warmth within.
The crack never widens.
No one mends it.
No one asks it to.

Dust rehearses
what time swept aside.
The scent of leaves
still brewing in the empty pot;
always reaching
into another afternoon.

The pour
leans as though listening,
giving before taking,
like a heron poised in silence
on the river's skin.
Or a ballerina tilting
practicing so elegantly
at the bar.

No one sees it fill.
It pours only for those
who arrive with warm hands.

It empties rather slowly,
leaving the last cup
for old friends 
who never return.

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