Cat Dixon

See the steam. The gods
have set their invisible
kettle on the stove and it’s only
a matter of time before the whistle
blows for how can a god 
host a tea party with cold tea?
The napkins are hills, the saucers
and cups line up, the evergreens.
You step closer. Someone
says, Step back! The stove is hot,
you’ll burn yourself. As if you’re a toddler
who knows no better. It’s only a matter
of time before you climb into the spout,
wait for the tip as your body’s poured
into cups, sipped by large lips,
washed down with dainty cookies
the size of elephants.