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Moving People With Words

Poems on the MRT

Tasting Notes by Natalie Wang

 

i. english breakfast

it is the only one i have to offer the first time
you stay over. you make a face as you
sip into it and say i'll get you better.

ii. earl grey

my turn to make a face now -
too floral? you ask, as though
making a note.

i don't like to taste soap
i say, but follow you
into the shower anyway.

iii. ceylon tea

i never liked tea, i finally admit,
pouring yet another spoonful
of milk into the cup.
but i like coffee even less.

you say, no, i'll find you
one that you do like

and i think as i sip
my cup – how romantic.
as though i was worth a quest.

iv. apple tea

i am trying to understand if i like it.
the smell, certainly, the way it makes
the kitchen summer bright, but when
i set the cup down and stroke your knuckles,
i am bracing myself for a storm.

i think i prefer my apples in juice, i say,
voice steam soft. i wait for the thunder
but get a kiss to the forehead instead.
alright, you say, and i breathe in
the smell of apples.

v. royal milk tea

oh, i say, and you are beaming
as though you have discovered
the secret to the universe, here
in my kitchen, the afternoon light
sliding in the window, soft and golden.
i brought cake, you say, waving a bag.

vi. xinjiang milk tea

is that salt? i ask. i watch dubiously
as you reconstitute it from brown
powder, spoon clanging harshly
against the cup as you stir.
you push it to me and
say try. i find myself
chasing down
the taste to
very
end.

vii. matcha

no.

viii. cold brew hojicha

we were quarrelling. one of those arguments / about nothing but seemed like everything / at the time, you were late / and i am simultaneously not spending / enough time with you / because work / and too much time with you / because clingy is never a good look / and i had stormed into my room and locked the door / and you let yourself out / but not before you made a jug and stuck it / in the fridge / so i had something to drink in the morning / i call you when i find it / listen to the phone ring as i sip / its cool smoky taste and wonder / how one can be worthy of this care.

ix. da hong pao milk tea 30% sugar with black pearl

no, you say, affronted,
when i offer you
my extra-large cup.
i call you a snob,
but still, it doesn't stop
you from licking into
my lips after, just as
its syrupy sweetness
does not stop another

argument from rearing
its head and this time
it is about nothing
because we know what
the actual problem is
and no amount of tea
will be able to fill the
ocean that will come
between us.

x. da hong pao

here, you say and i accept
the unsaid apology. this is how
it should taste. you tell me
about its history as i nurse
the amber liquid; a foreigner
sneaking in to steal away
the seedlings and yet for what
when they still did not know how
to wrest the magic from the leaves.
thief, i think. we sit here, able to
drink this because of a thief.
what will you remember
of me, when this is all over?

xi. chai

i refuse to drink anything else
for a week straight. my memory of you
will always be this: you standing
before the stove, stirring, the way
your hands smelled of ginger for
the rest of the night. i will try to
replicate the recipe but it will
never taste the same and no matter
who i ask or how many times i
measure out the spice.

xii. pu-er

it isn't because i don't love you, you say
and i echo the same sentiment, my hands
wrapped around the hot mug like a talisman.

xiii. water

here are the things you leave:
a jug for filtered water. a teapot,
pink peonies painted on the side.
one china cup and a ceramic mug.
more tea than i could drink in three years.
i let them all gather dust for weeks.

xiv. english breakfast again

i dig up the tin from the back of the shelf
because i feel like being petty.
they were the cheapest tea bags
i could find at the supermarket,
and palatable, with enough milk,
even now after months of trying
everything else you made me.
i am allowed this.

xv. silver needles

i walk into the teahouse with the memory
of you describing the flavour, your
eyes squeezed closed and your
palms raised as though divining
an answer from the heavens.
the server hands me a glass pot
of yellow liquid and i close my eyes
and think - leaves picked in early winter,
boiled in seventy degree water,
steeped for three minutes and then removed
before they can scald. i drink it and long
to turn as though you were sitting beside
beside me so i can say yes love,
you were right. it tastes just like sunlight.

Published in Perks of Being Dumped (2024)

Natalie Wang is a Singaporean poet. Her book The Woman Who Turned Into A Vending Machine is a collection of poems on metamorphosis, myth, and womanhood. She has been published in Fairy Tale Review, Cordite Poetry Review, LONTAR: The Journal of Southeast Asian Speculative Fiction, and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. You can find her at www.nataliewang.me.

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Poems on the MRT is an initiative by the National Arts Council, in partnership with SMRT and Stellar Ace. Produced by Sing Lit Station, a local literary non-profit organisation, this collaboration displays excerpts of Singapore poetry throughout SMRT’s train network, integrating local literature into the daily experience of commuters. Look out for poems in English, Chinese, Malay, and Tamil in trains on the East-West, North-South and Circle Lines, as well as videos created by local artists and featuring local poets in stations and on trains. The Chinese, Malay, and Tamil poems are available in both the original languages and English. To enjoy the full poems, commuters may read them on go.gov.sg/potm.

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