At Tea Time

At Tea Time
by DIY Danna
Gilded stilettos pace the American prison floor,
acupuncturing hardwood planks, between
bodies captured on YouTube also waiting
for tea to be served promptly at five,
fists full of Lincolns, awaiting new fall flavors.
 
Long gloved hands seem to thrust to the beat
of Ecuadorian folk music, ordering authority
in piercing pitching woo tongue:
“Wrapped spicy vegan morsels melted in a microwave,
and sensible Camellia sinensis with cinnamon, grande.”
 
In hushed tone to the barista:
“Don’t worry, I’m throwing up the taco later.”
The broad torso, now a teapot with gloved handles,
holds a card punched after payment
and the lid wonders why they’re so slow today…
 
A more patient woman in an Ecuadorian prison
is listening to the same folk tune at tea time.
A lesbian torture clinic at tea time is quieter.
Tranquil eyes simply stare at tiny holes punched
in the wall, tracking the days confined.
 
Aromatic candles were lit in the hallway
after a glitter bomb attack on the Bachmann & Associates clinic,
but the woman’s hair and clothes still smell like the shock
of another woman’s urine after another seething,
unsuccessful session of Christian conversion therapy.
 
(For the closeted and tortured lesbians of the U.S.A. and Ecuador.)

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