Afternoon Tea with Superman: A Sestina
Sestinas are horribly sticky, cyclical little buggers, but there's something rewarding in trying to unlock new meaning with each repetition of a word. This was done for a poetry workshop. The spacing out of the six repeated words with elaborate, cumbersome phrases help add an awkward sense of waiting.
"More sugar?" I quip. Two cubes plink plink in his bone china cup.
He waves my hand away. It’s the spandex, you see, it hides nothing
and reveals every entropic imperfection. He sips—pinky finger raised—
Doubly cautious when setting cup back into saucer. Can’t be too careful!
I’ve been known to crack a steel girder or two, after all. A halting chuckle, pause
As we listen to the inconsolable mewing of the ginger cat next door
Who has taken an overzealous interest in our dining activities: screen door
creaking in admonition against her purring queries. His half-empty cup
is daintily perched on cobalt knee. An appreciative slurp. A pause
as he reaches for another maple scone. It’s our weekly tradition. Nothing
short of genocide could deter me! promptly at 2 p.m., in carefully
pressed cape and brightly polished boots. "A toast," I cry, my cup raised.
To what? "To love!" We plink plink our bone china cups, but this raises
that unfathomable, indefatigable question: what is love? A bolted steel door
against which we catapult our bodies. A syringe we prepare under careful
supervision. A rose! A misunderstanding! A recipe calling for equal cups
of sugar and salt. We giggle. "But surely you know! You altered time! If nothing
else that must be love." No, he sighs, that was a catching of breath, a pause
of undetermined length to avoid decision and certainty. Pausing
mid-breath to reheat his second cup with his keen laser vision, he raises
the steaming drink to his surprisingly full surprisingly red lips. Nothing
is more satisfying than the perfectly steeped cup of tea. A perfect smile: 32 doors,
pearled and polished, sealed and unbudging unless, perhaps, I could cup
his face into mine and gently pry them open with my carefully
chosen words meant to butter him across my fresh-baked cinnamon lips. A careful
broaching of the question, "How are you and...?" I do not pause
for discomfort, but rather to give him time to dab away jam smeared on his cup.
A mumbled Fine as his eyes drift to some inscrutable safe zone between drywall (which raises
the question: can he pierce the heart—or two skimpy layers of cotton—as easily as wooden doors?)
Perhaps if we were in my kitchen with me kneading dough and flour on his elbows, then nothing
would be too taboo to grunt and shriek over the wailing kettle. But here, no thing
as personal as the specifics of love can be uttered: we are polite, careful
company, balancing on lily jacquard armchairs, sipping from bone china. The doors
for well-mannered conversation only open so far. And now, they pause
before deciding yes, it is time to close. One more scone. One more raising
to the mouth. Then a benign thanks. A brushing of crumbs. An empty cup.
Nothing more pleasurable— "See you next wee—" We pause
and laugh together. Carefully I hand him his cape, and he raises
the heavy velour to his neck. He flies out the door. I sip my last cup.
