The Pot

The bubbles rose silent. 
Perfect silver orbs
in groupings of two or eight to travel erect,
as if pulled by something straight,
up, up, as an arrow. 
They landed at the breaking surface invisibly--
shadows sent skittering accross the 
water like spiders with fine, spindly legs.

The pot seemed forboding in a brilliant way. 
Its hypocratic tendencies, breaking waves,
washing over her in thick crests. 
A face contorted in the reflective
exterior tinged with heated fog, as if she
were looking down
on an upturned spoon.
The irony, again: So smooth, her face,
in frozen contortions. 
The radiation of heat pulsing, beckoning. 
Two extremes to pull and confuse.
The face in the silver soured,
turned dull.

Thumping a tight red fist wildly on the long handle,
she sent it soaring.
The scalding water seemed to fall in torrents, for a single moment,
hot and thick and bubbling from whence it came.
The pot clattered with the echo of a drum
on the slickened floor at her feet.

She looked sorrowfully at her shoes,
the smooth black leather revealing the beaded bubbles that
had trailed her woolen skirt to splash happily downward.
A smile danced at the corner of her cheek,
as if the flesh had been gathered with a fine needle
and was being pulled firmly through by an expanse of knotted thread,
was ominous and jejune.
Tasteless as the water she'd cast, carelessly,
about the room.