the Turkish pot

in this poem the Turkish pot becomes a vessel of transformation for the poet whether brewed or fully steeped.

a sharper study 
of one’s daily cup 
and grind, 
is in the warm, fat belly 
of metal on fire

a thin iron witch
to round up the mud men 
into an army
of percolated thoughts
that verge on the tongue
into the possibility of
words

a sumo wrestler’s 
grip on water 
needing to boil 
then simmer 
finely coarse information
hidden in the dark closed spaces
of dry wooded cupboards

adding sweet
crystallized nerves
and languid milk
to be at once
dissolved and stirred
though tradition
would have me take this
long morning kiss 
stressed, soothed, peaked
in a darkness 
bitter and sweet

© lyw

from the poetry chapbook ya helu, a poetic self-portrait