Steeped sage massing at the bottom of a cup
Moves as seaweed moves in the brothy sea

            My child’s tears as salty as the sea
            Deprived of the comfort I withhold

Her comfort dried up like a potsherd
Unearthed from beneath red desert sands

            The sand empty-handed but for heat
            Burning as this mug burns in my hands

I hold a mug that promises remedy
Passed down to me by ancient mothers

            Sometimes a mother must dry up quickly
            However bitterly she cries for milk

I swallow and it’s bitter on my tongue
Steeped sage massing at the bottom of a cup

– Christine Pennylegion