Wolves at the Teacup

Wolves at the Teacup

They come politely at first—

breath like winter on the saucer’s lip,

ears pricked to the rattle of a spoon.

¤

Steam lifts, a white flag I never meant to raise.

Sugar cubes are small moons.

Their hunger is the tide.

¤

You ask if I’m all right.

My "yes" floats—thin bark in a flood—

while silver rings the porcelain like a warning bell.

¤

I learned to brew calm properly:

water at the edge of the boil, leaves that open

like good reasons.

Still, the wolves prefer the edge of anything.

¤

They sniff the quiet, circle the rim,

tongues of shadow testing the gloss.

One steps onto the saucer, and my hands become a storm I try to hide.

¤

They don’t want blood. Not really.

They want the soft underthought.

the panic I keep folded beneath the napkin,

The story that says I should smile while swallowing.

¤

I name them, softly—

Doubt, Hurry, What-If, In Case—

watch their shoulders lower

as if recognition were a leash.

¤

You stir once, slow,

and the sound draws a boundary clean as a path.

The steam becomes a small weather I can stand in.

My pulse slows down.

¤

I break a sugar moon, let it snow.

The cup becomes a small country I’m allowed to keep.

The wolves watch their reflections,

find themselves too beautiful to bear their teeth.

¤

When I finally lift the tea,

the rim is warm, the world less sharp.

They back away into the polite dark

that waits under furniture.

¤

I’m not fearless, only poured.

Sip by sip, the hands I live in steady,

And the table learns my name without flinching.

¤

If they return tomorrow, fine.

I’ll set another place,

teach even the hungriest parts

to eat from a smaller bowl.