This ceramic mug I clutch 

to my cheek in morse code

—touchdown-ouch-touchdown—

is too hot for the comfort I seek, 

yet contains what I mean when 

I beg to be soothed. I know,

sharp heat will dissipate 

because cooler air fogs 

steam into tears.

My hand reaches round

the vessel searing its skin,

and I sip. Tea dark enough 

to jolt me and hot enough 

to blister my tongue, 

because waiting too 

long brings cold comfort,

fine for refreshment but not 

for consolation. Warmth

and a few drops of honey

soothe my throat, raw 

from too much meaning. 

I take it with nothing acerbic 

as lemon and no cream to swell 

mucous membranes until they 

cry out that, after all, the pain is 

too much to contain.  Safer, 

the elusive comfort of this mug, 

an SOS, burning my cheek.