Murk green

When Watuka said, "Tea, please," 
it was already done. 
The silver-plated teapot was set on charcoal roast. 

The water boiled overnight, twice, before adding 
Chinese Gunpowder from murk green can into the pot. 
Hours passed. 

Two fresh grabs of mint. One full bowl of sugar. 
The water boiled again; one mercurial pellet dropped 
dead in the centre. 

Three cups now stood on the silver basin. 
Three sets of froth laced from caramelised sugar 
brimming over, 

more delicate than glass. Hot blisters grinned 
from ear to ear. 
The water rinsed over. 

Watuka took a sip, 
pushed a coin forward with one thumb, and said, 
"For friendship."  

Only the cups were in sight now. 
Somewhere in the dark, Watutu started again. 
Same routine. Same tea, 

more sugar. The fire was warm against 
Watuka's trembling hands. This would last many more 
times before the end. 

"Tea, please," 
Watuka said, "Tea, please," 
and pushed another forward.

Dale Chou
2019-04-21