Bosnian Coffee

Grind beans to graphite.
'Not fine enough' Mensura says
Mohammud's chuckle rumbles

Roast half-a-minute in the pot.
Gilded handle arches
Pot smalls at the brim

A teaspoon heap for each half-demitasse.
'Refuge tore
the shirts off our backs
This ritual of coffee
is all we could carry'

Add half-a-pot of boiling water. Stir.
A froth tans the surface
'Blood's not this thick'

Add the other half.
Mohammud lights a Drina
It demures in his hand

Secrete blackvenom into thimbles.
The oil's skin rises
into a rainbow of indigoes

Don't let it sit.
'Bean ghosts grow bitter'
His laugh thunders
It frightens the Drina's smoke

Place two sugar cubes beside each.
Sockheads bombed his house
They missed his laugh

Dip the diamonds. Nibble.
War gnawed Sarajevo
His dirty jokes kept them sane

Swig the silt. Repeat at 4pm.
Specks pepper the bottom
and haunt the cup

from The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture
©2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe
More about the author