The box of tea glances off my fingers and tumbles
to the floor. Hibiscus and rosehip,
pale pink box with cartoon tigers breathing steam.

It’s right there, just feet away, just pick it up,
just pick it up pick it up.
How many thousands of times
in my life could I have just swooped a hand down,
not aware of the shape my spine made
as it bent to help me reach? Now I stand
with my back throbbing like it often does
but worse, and stare at the box that is literally
out of reach. I didn’t even want this fucking tea
anyway, it was just on the counter too near
the microwave. It’s not worth this swell
of shame and sadness that boils and heats
until salty brew runs down my cheeks.

What would it be like to fling
my body into the space between my hand
and the hardwood, to grab hold of what I want
without pain?

I leave the box on the floor
until someone else comes home
and scoops it up
with muscles unfrozen, unknowing
the astringent hibiscus taste
that never leaves my cup.

---

Alex Shevrin Venet (she/her) is an educator and writer living in Vermont. She has written two books for teachers, and her education writing has appeared in Edutopia, Mindshift, and School Library Journal. Her current work explores grief, pain, and disability identity.

Bluesky: @asv.bsky.social
Instagram: @alexsvenet