The most mundane things contain poetry and meaning, especially rituals. Writers have rituals. Many include coffee. ☕️
Dear friends tease me about my coffee mug. A 22oz soup/cereal bowl with a handle. It is as large as my face when I drink from it. I’ve only one mug. I brought it at a thrift store in 2016. I use it daily. One friend in the EU had the audacity to suggest it was a novelty cup. Coffee is serious to me.
A Handful of Fresh Coffee
The French press had a vacuum seal this morning.
I am unsure why. I needed coffee.
I pressed anyway. I pressed on.
It spit the fresh coffee that had cooled only long
enough for me to wash the dishes.
From the pouring lip, it hissed and spit caffeine venom.
I had a palm full of sacred black nectar just under boiling temperature.
I didn’t scream or cry but I saw God,
Heaven, Hell and several dimensions at once.
My inner voice said a mewling profanity—
in lower case, a serif font, and an ellipsis.
My lips were resting bitch face,
unsure of my brows.
I cleaned up the coffee from the countertop
before turning on water to blanch my red right hand.
My palm is pink and tender.
I am scalded.
I will drink this coffee with resentment
and bitterness.
Half half and half, excessive chocolate syrup,
frothed regardless,
like this sunovabitch owes me something more than a burn.
-Pixie Bruner
