Tea About Trauma: A Second Cup

Boiled and brewed, ready to drink

My lips press the rim, sipping slowly

Burning my tongue and throat instantly

Honey and ginger, sweet and spicy

Settle in my stomach, causing turbulence

My mind starts racing

My hands start shaking

I slam the teacup down on the counter

Spilling the brew

As I slide down the kitchen wall

Cup contents run off ceramic tile

Pooling on the floor

I pant erratically, recalling a different burn

Oxidation levels are dangerously low

Lower like HIM and his inhumane act

Memories come full fold

Holding me captive in floor space

Spacing out, I go back to that day

When our three-year-old daughter

A baby, just a child, told me what he did

He stood over me while I slept, wielding a blade

"Down, he was pointing it down, Mama"

She told me the next morning after he left for work

When I found the knife in question under his pillow

Up in the evening, Blessed the child, daughter of same name

Saw him and interrupted his attempts with a scream

Shaking me to my core, waking me to a full standing up

I need to clean up the tea, but I can't reach the teacup...

Saved me, she saved me, but she was only a child

Rocking back and forth on the floor, I can barely breathe

I need an ambulance; I am dying- someone help me

No, I am alive; this is a traumatic memory

One that creeps in whenever I least expect it

It's roasting in this kitchen; I have to turn off the burner

The tea kettle is still whistling, but I cannot move

I forgot to cut off the fire when another reignited

Handle it, handle it, I try, but this memory is too hot

***

Author's note: This is the sister poem to my Acrostic version based on a real-life event, a memory that often comes rushing in, one that, although many years later, is often still too hot to handle.