We Are Such Rich Brew
Remember, sister, the evenings under the heavy popular trees,
nights sitting out on the deck beneath the ferny cedars
when nothing was between us but the lazy curl of coffee?
We saw clouds part and stars whip across the dark
as if moved by magic wand from some Great hand,
and wished upon each sip of rich dark nectar of God
that might be the elixir of dreams come true.
Black, traveling in silence, unraveling the sleep,
traveled to the cells of caution
for we were brown and beleaguered with life;
drowned, almost, one moment and cracked
like thirsting earth the next. There was no common area
where cream and sugar could sweeten some talking.
Our witch’s brew, gulped against trickery,
kept us boneless, perhaps spineless,
and able to take the blows by simply curving
inward and setting our lips against the rim
as if we were partaking of Holy Grail.
Our words must have traveled up
on the swirling steam to be drawn
into the palm of the Great Magician,
or gotten caught in the folds of a goddess
where they were given form.
We meant them to only keep the good words
breathed on the cooling coffee, sister, didn’t we?
Such truths are shared in such holy places
over a cup, a saucer, a take out container
of latte that tends to color life cream
and hide the bitter bean of it.
Did you know the bean is poison until it has met fire?
That’s us, sister, we have met our pyre,
been ground, and were simply waiting to be brewed
and partaken of. We have made a fine blend,
you and I, the kind that, when shared over soul talk,
make even the poplar and cedar quiver in delight.
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