summoning with chai & failure

in the living room again, i cannot conjure
even the space i inhabit. rain for several

years & an exposé about flat-beaked birds
brushing themselves on sharpest rocks. wrought

of my own inertia, i cannot make the journey
across an ocean, spend my only remaining

cash on the tangible. i am foreign & so
nothing has ever made sense. i’m domestic 

& so expected to understand. i let chai steep
for hours on the counter, forget the milk

& don’t own sugar, & the cup tastes of bitter
rain & sheared rock. the cup is cold. the room

is empty. i create another version of myself
& congratulate for her persistence.