Strong Tea
I chose Ireland in winter because it was wet,
following the siren song of saturation—my love
for a summer deluge or tepid spring showers
or even a cold downpour in fall, moisture
that found the cave dwellings in your skin
and settled there, making your hair do a jig
and softening the intake of breath.
Such rain affinity, I assumed, was a trickle-down trait
from Galway forebears that would let me bond
with the island as soon as I stepped off the plane
and into the mist, but it took months to shift
from spilled out to stirred in. Then I belonged
to the drops that dampened rooftop and sweater.
The part left behind when I returned home
is pattering down the road in the drizzle
to tumble into a café with students
who played mandolin and penny whistle after class
and let me stick to them like a stray cat
as we drank pot upon pot of breakfast tea
brewed the way I still do it decades later: letting leaves
sink and infuse hot water, telling a few jokes,
then pouring the umber liquid through a strainer.
The scene grows stronger as it steeps—rain darkening
the street, elbows, wet wool, bursts of laughter.
Strong Tea by Sarah Carleton | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Rattle, ONE ART, and Rust & Moth (which first published the poem “Strong Tea”). Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
