my mother asks how i take my coffee now.
sacrifice makes a god of the giving up
not the refuge longing takes in the meantime
so heaven is a white lie ground between my teeth.
a steaming truth screaming the mo[u]rning awake.

i am descendant from women who greet death like brunch.
i do not know if this is bravery or foolishness.
the lesson in leaving love to simmer on the stove
is that the scent often attracts insatiable darkness
every dish / an ancient meeting place / a taste of here on a plate of after.

and perhaps this is the reason i find comfort in black.
close yet unspoken – my sister’s alcohol tolerance
infusing impulse into hesitance – my grandmother’s restaurant etiquette
i have seen enough mo[u]rning to stay dressed for the occasion.
every sunrise / a party of shallow graves / the singing of two choirs.