Monday, March 19, 2018

Marianne Szlyk writes


Remembering My Last Cup of Coffee




I am sitting in this room with blank walls,

this coffeehouse about to close,

trying to remember my last cup of coffee,


not last summer

,
but the summer before the summer


before last.




I remember starting off the morning,

standing, drinking a mug (since broken) 


of coffee as black as ink.



I remember being proud of drinking 


my coffee black the way 

my mother did. 


As the day went by, I’d add more milk

more milk more milk more milk


until the coffee was memory


bittering vanilla almond.



I don’t remember how I stopped.


Charcoal drawing. 
No. 8 - Special (Drawing No. 8) -- Georgia O'Keeffe

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