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A quarterly international literary journal

Grammy Tea




/ Poetry /

1996, sleepovers at my grandmother’s house.

My own room, a quilted bedspread.

It was there I discovered the way I like my eggs

(poached) and the way I prefer my tea

(heavy on the milk, heavier on the sugar).

A tea fit for a queen. (I called it Grammy Tea).


I drank out of a hand-painted mug, straight 

from the pottery shop, watched movies

on VHS tapes, let my grandmother pull hot 

curlers out of my hair, her own little doll. 

Begged her to tell me stories, 

the truer the better, like the one where she tore 

her husband off like a band-aid 

when he refused to let her go to work,

one fell swoop—quick but full of burn. 

I listened to the way she held the word “wife” 

on her tongue like a bitter pill, 

like something to spit back out. 


She is the one who told me

the fairytale was always fractured, the princess 

never needed rescuing (and neither did I).

I never believed that women could bite

until I saw the point of her teeth,

the way she sharpened beauty like a dagger,

wielded grace like a weapon

To this day, I still cannot stomach 

a stifled woman, still wear lipstick the color

of blood, still drink my tea 

like a goddamn queen. 


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