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.

 

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