You step back always to boiling

black froth in a tin cup

to the density of flak curtains

heavier at least than the wind

stirred up by whatever

is outside exploding,

whenever you arrive

among these stone-ground beans

labeled Colombian Supremo

Jamaican Blue Mountain

robust with floral notes and balanced

blends of pleasant acidity.

After disheveling homes

with tracks of finger-size holes

left open to let a little sunlight in,

or kneeling through blood rinsed

truck-bed surgeries

while ceramic armor plates

clamped your legs to sleep

your fingers in torn rubber gloves

in someone’s torn leg—

anything that didn’t taste

like dust was saffron or jasmine

under the tongue—even dirt

sometimes, even blood.

But now which of these

mild to moderate sharpnesses

counterfeit best that flavor

when tamped into a cannon-mouth

French press here at home

in your un-demolished kitchen?