Coffee

I measure out
the spoon of sugar,
scoop of powder
silken as breath,
stir the mixture on the stove,
its thick smell
already rising.

I am making coffee
in my new pot that is either
an ibrik or an imrik.
I may be making s’rj or kahve
in a cezva or a jesveh--
hard to say.

The choreography’s precise,
identical no matter what the tongue:
dark roiling to the top,
three times the charm,
careful not to let it boil over,
this sweet and bitter drink
with many names, with none.

This perfect cup, ownedby each armed square of land,
holds the scent of scimitars and
cardamom, dust and blood.

Turkish,  Armenian,
Armenian, Turkish,
minefield of an order,
could as well be Arab and
Israeli, English and Irish,
Bosnian and Serb, Moabite
and Midianite. You can read
your fortune in the grounds.

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