Over-Steeped

Morning calm spills down my throat, an antidote

to replace jitters of coffee, aspartame of Diet Coke. Keep me

awake on this morning, every morning, when sleep pulls like a lover 

from an unmade bed, and let me continue 

work that feels more important than me

while disease leaks life from my neighbors and missiles fall 

around my faraway team — their homes, family, 

limbs lost in rubble.

But when I walk out of the Red Cross, denied

my bimonthly blood donation, levels not right,

I blame my refusal to eat red meat, caring recklessly

for cows and pigs, and I accuse the seemingly-innocuous 

tea bags — whatever hidden poison within them transfers 

to hot water, my mouth, my stomach, my blood and blocks me 

from absorbing iron I need, blocks me 

from being able to help 

in this little way, important way, only way 

I seem to be able to help amidst so much suffering. 

The phlebotomist gives me a towel 

I don’t deserve and the sun seems too bright 

as I walk out the door, too full 

with my own blood.

The next evening, I mow the lawn after a day too long

at work for a project in a distant war, 

and I kill a family of white and pink clover flowers. 

A honeybee scurries away from my blades before my conscience

triggers a too-late turn, only a few fragile blossoms 

left in the fading light.

Sometimes I am the tea 

stewing in warm water, seeping 

into the void, bitter.