Lorette with Cup of Coffee

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.