On Sundays
Mother brews tea.
An art.

Orchid petals float face down in the water
and I can still see the flower veins through the steam.
They remind me too much of my own saturated capillaries
for my liking.
I turn them over and look away.

While Mother watches with eyes
blacker than the iron kettle,
I add two spoons of sugar.

Mother turns away from me
and talks to our nanny in mandarin
thinking I can’t understand.

I put the sugar back into the cupboard
biting my greedy tongue until I taste blood
laced with yellow orchids and white sugar.