You steep orange pekoe,
earth and leaf and bitter,
soothing inhaled,
cutting when drunk.
You’re not earnest enough
to mind your china,
or you think me empty
to sate with pieces
of floating porcelain,
and I’m dull enough
to crave the novelty
of feeling those shards
in my throat.
It’s a fine feeling
to pretend it hurts you
to hurt me this way. Maybe
my stomach will churn
the white chips into a pearl,
and you’ll value
something inside me.

Amy Kotthaus


Amy Kotthaus is a writer, translator, painter, and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, Haiku Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Ground Fresh Thursday, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Digging Through the Fat.



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