Alexa Garster

I Had to Make My Tea Twice Today

because there were other things on my mind
besides whether or not milk goes in herbal tea. It never does.
It curdles like my thoughts in a crowded room.
Therapists and Instagram-inspirationalists are always saying:

learn the lesson. I’m not exactly sure what this speaks to
other than my inability to do it. Tomorrow I’ll be thinking about
the average age of diagnosis for schizophrenia, twenty-four,
and pour milk in my herbal tea again while feeling the need

to text my mom so she can confirm I was born in 1995.
I’m sitting across from a first date and swallow stoup-fulls
of overpriced Syrah just to keep me from asking
do you ever have irrational thoughts? My aunt hasn’t slept

in twenty years and I’m wondering if I’ll get there.
Later I pour pancake batter down the sink
and put baby carrots in the pantry
because I’m thinking about that thing I read

where researchers said there are six ways people express sadness
in their voice—they speak quietly, slowly, in a lower pitch,
in a monotone, by mumbling, or in a huskier tone
(and this is a direct quote) like they’re speaking through a pillow—

and my first thought is certainly there are more than six
reasons to be sad so I guess we’re all just a bunch of recyclables,
reusing our old tricks on a new audience.
But don’t worry, it’s not always like this. Next Tuesday

I’ll pour milk in my herbal tea because I’m simply consumed
with calculations on how to squeeze six servings of tomato soup
out of a carton of four. There’s a lot to love about herbal tea
but instead let me do some amateur scrutinizing

over the spectrum of sanity of people
who work out seven days a week. I’m not in the moment,
I’m praying to Florence Pugh or whatever deity I’m currently into
to put me back in the moment. I pour herbal tea in my milk

and think of calling that memoir I’ll never write:
It’s Never A Good Time to Meet Me.

 

Re: The Winged Victory of Samothrace

If only we were like her: pulled, without a head,
from the Aegean Sea in 1863. Made mysterious by

our incompleteness. What if we were memorable for
what’s missing & all the world went in to salvage us

(except I think maybe I fought against the right word
& the right word was salvation, what if all the world went in

for our salvation but that doesn’t seem right either.
One requires a ship & the other a belief in hell

& I’m not sure which one is harder for me to come by.
Ravage what if all the world ravaged us, was that what I meant?).

My thoughts are jumbled now & I’ve stopped thinking about
scavenge the archaeologists & artists who returned for decades

to the dark depths & found no head. This finding-nothing
considered a savage victory in many circles, has she lost her mind

would never be said in that one tone in that one room
at the Louvre. If only we were her: flawless average marble

& the likeness of our messiest organ removed. I’m certain now
I mean pretend—what if we were made immortal by losing our head

& all the world went in for the great pretending
of helping us look.

 

Alexa Garster is a poet and screenwriter based in Denver. Some of her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Pulp Poets Press, 3Elements Literary Review, and Liquid Cat Quarterly. When she’s not writing, she’s either re-watching Fleabag, spoiling her two cats, or overusing the Goodreads app.