I make coffee with the coffee maker.
We call it cafetera, and we don’t clean it very often.
It’s silver and discolored, and the handle burned off a few years back.
I drink my coffee with milk, with sugar, with a speck of salt,
and then it tastes like some ancient memory.
It tastes of 7 o’clock before school,
when the roosters would shriek under the fat red tree on the
It tastes of the edge of the coast,
dead dead dead except the water,
blue as the sky and blacker.
It tastes of the landline after hours on the phone,
like curls of laughter and complaints.