last night's cup of tea

the city passes through the window like a film. at the rally the writer sings a song about hiding from the bombs in her mother tongue. the melody is a knife to the heart, or a curse to haunt the streets of stolen land forever. she reads a passage translated from a play she's writing: ‘when the world burns we peel garlic and keep our souls fed’. no choice but to keep the rhythm through the nightmare. there are always empty plates to fill.

pedestrian lies on sidewalk at the feet of the preacher pleading the city to repent. he waves his hands and shouts something about salvation from our one true saviour. on his soapbox in his beard, animated fresco of a prophet from the bible. he holds the book to the sky with a judgement day warning. we pass with shopping bags and more important things to do. nobody stops walking. but the lady lies at his feet, closed eyes, open hands. maybe she believes.

the colours soften in my room. gentle beige and peace on mute. it's all quieter here. life happens outside; I return to fold and sleep. the silver swan watches over the bed I come to dream on, softer than the heating humming through the floorboards. I take a photo of the fly asleep in last night’s cup of tea.