by Anna Meister
Every morning it’s hard. This part
makes me think of India, cardamom
cracked. I grind the beans, grind my teeth
down to nothing, wait. Sometimes
it takes so long. When day old, flush
down the toilet. Mud or lightning
bugs. So much stronger when he makes it. Hot
water on a cold March morning. Single
origin. Not your Folgers
or whatever. I couldn’t stomach
for years. I’m still not old enough, she says.
These days, I’m forgetting everything. & my dad
stopped drinking. Oh! I guess I should’ve
turned it on. I treasure this routine,
even if it’s bad. The oils, the rumbling!
My dad says addiction, says something
to watch. Take it off just before. So much
stronger that way. Measure carefully. Yes,
with the side of the knife. I realize
I’m going to be late. Unrecognizable.
You want three (or five) tablespoons.
I bring the cup to bed. Always,
the whole thing. Stir. This is called
blooming. How much is
enough? Take the small machine
apart. You must find something wooden.
Bottomless. Now I understand
& begin to float, becoming useful.