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