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


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.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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