Dawn
Location
a few mornings ago
i woke to realize that i could describe
How I Make My Coffee
in poetic detail.
I don’t like coffee very much
But the thing
of it
blooms and sings
with memory
Safeway coffee
smells like christmas and dinner parties
when our house would swell with gold noise
the kitchen is quiet
when i am awake.
Soy milk
which i borrow from my lactose intolerant father
which has a distinctive smell
when poured over shredded wheat
and pineapples
flows like storm clouds
rising like pressure systems
to the top of a college mug
which my mother scored at a football game
which i did not attend.
There are scratches on it
and a faint tang
from when it was filled with rum
and tossed out a window
I pour sugar from a plastic can.
It used to be kept in a
green glass jar
wide and ribbed and square
with a rusting lid
which was cleaned and put away
because it was my grandmother’s
but we still use her
dull bronze measuring cups
(at least I think they’re
hers)
i stir with a plastic spoon.
It puzzles me when people
are not aware of such things
I often suspect them of lying
but I suppose
we are all different, no?
I cannot tell you for the life of me
what I would like for my birthday
or how many dresses I own
But I can always tell you how I Like
my coffee
it is as omnipresent
as a silver knife
in my side.