You used to say the kettle had moods. It sang for you—clear and urgent. For me, it barely murmured, as if it didn’t want to wake the house. I’d already poured the water—too early, maybe. Still learning to time things right. The tea steeped quietly. I folded the towel again, thinking you’d be pleased.
Steam unfurls like breath.
The room learns you by the trace—
quiet, then more gone.
Dara Laine (she/her) is a poet and evaluator based in Baltimore, originally from a hay farm in New Jersey. She returned to poetry following the sudden death of her father. Her work explores grief, memory, and the sacred ordinary through restrained lyricism, symbolic detail, and quiet emotional complexity. Her poems have appeared in Pine Hills Review and Right Hand Pointing, and she was a July 30/30 poet with Tupelo Press.