The first time I visited her
we had tea at the bottom of the pool.
When I was older I went to see her
in the lake country.
I knocked at the dutch doors
of her kitchen.
I thought I would surprise her
but she surprised me.
She had pushed all the kitchen appliances
face first, against each wall.
There was nothing in the middle.
I went towards her,
stepping on strange floor tiles,
each one inch by one inch and filled with water… so the field mice might drink
but not drown.
She was standing by the oven,
Cooking required rubber boots, dry matches and a suicidal wish.
Even Sylvia Plath would have a hard time getting that stove to start.
There was no water in the pot.
There was no water in the tap.
The sink was filled with spring leaves.
When I opened the back door,
to bring in the rain water,
The wind picked them up
and tossed them
like a salad.
There were no tea bags
but she sat on the floor anyways,
pulled out a tiny spoon
from her pocket
and began taking water from the tiles
and pouring them in
her imaginary tea cups,
I declined to have a lump of spring leaf,
but she put in 2 lumps for herself.
She said she will read her fortune later,
in the bottom
of her invisible cup
and in a small book,
the field mice will record