TALKING WITH WILMA

Whoever bought you this teapot
(and I know you did not buy it
for yourself, perfect Japanese china)

     leafy white poppies lying
     against an aqua background
     bound by bands of navy,
     white waves and blossoms
     dancing around its circumference

knew elegance. It sits
on my decrepit white stove
gleaming
waiting for tomorrow’s tea

and I want to talk to you
about disillusionment
in a way we’d never been
able to do in real life

and yet I hear your voice.
“Oh, girl,” you say
launching some story from
your own time. And

it’s always the right story, some
somebodydonesomebodywrongsong
that sets the stage for acceptance
and moving on. Here we are

the teapot empty, waiting
for tomorrow’s conversation.