I can’t drink coffee anymore.
I used to in the mornings. Watch the milk
puff into clouds, turn my thoughts
in time to my spoon. Stir
and wait. Stir and wait.
Call me Lorette, tell me
I have olive skin
and the world is a cube,
that each corner is not a corner, but a door.
That there are still places
we have not gone.
I had a real cloud in my coffee once - I swear it was nimbus-shaped. I wanted to draw it for you, but I didn’t. I watched it float through the dark-roast sky.
There were brown sugar droplets rafted to it, the cloud would take them somewhere new. I just had to wait.
I can’t drink coffee anymore,
not since the hypothyroidism.
Not since I left Paris.
In Paris, they drink cappuccinos with 2-inch foam in the mornings, espresso is for afternoon. Everyone is named Lorette.
In Paris, I stared at the tasse de café and wished
my nose was straighter and that I could
braid my hair.
I wished I could curl my fingers
and tell more interesting lies.
I heard my wishes falling, like brown sugar
into the mug. I heard them sigh.
I watched them float away.