The Teapot

A teapot is
a miniature silver stagecoach,
wheels and horses absent,
hyperventilating,
a goldfish out of water,
temper rising steadily,
unbearable pressure.
A manic-depressive Dad,
up seventy-two hours
ranting repeatedly about
the salesclerk who didn’t cover
his mouth when he yawned and
the neighbor who he thinks
ignored him “on purpose” and
Mother, who he says
“is not saying anything
to take us forward,” wherever that is.
Exhaustion, dejection, Silence,
Darkness, balled up in a fetal position.
Mom gathers her sewing,
joins the children for nighttime
prayers and puts the kettle on
the stove.
Quietly simmering.

Today
in fetal position,
Hawaiian volcano
erupting above sand,
silently simmering
past memories of Mom,
putting the kettle on
to ease painful moments,
avoiding Dad’s sickness
and unexpected drama
bringing finality,
escalation is key
to resolution.