Who are you calling for?
My best friend once asked of my words. From the high shelf, the empty teapot said to me. “I want to feel these emotions you speak of!”
But I love you, I cried, my tongue lingering on the lulling sound of “love”.
“I am a teapot,” the teapot replied with obvious impatience.
Who are you longing for? My mother asked me one afternoon when the rain didn’t stop my going out into the garden. The snakes were dancing to the frog’s song. Lightning didn’t light up the starkness of this storm.
I am a teapot looking for the boiling point. I am the dancing snake intoxicated with the music of the flesh. I am the desert rain cloud which did all the gesturing but never delivering.
Who are you living for? The man asked me in between the knife strikes. You deserve better than this, he said without pausing to examine the damage from the stab wounds.
I am a voice without aim. I am the sound without the body. I am the teapot longing for the illusion of a perfect English afternoon. I am the dull ache inside every woman’s chest. I am a nuisance to be drunk away. Voices are laid out like haphazard marks on a butcher’s block. All you have to do is to pry one out of the etched wooden surface.