My mother's Mr. Coffee,
four cups in all, enough
for both of us, gurgling a good morning
from her galley kitchen counter
when I'd come for overnights;

my Yaya's stainless steel pot
on the front burner of her stove
when I was a girl at her table,
the dark liquid popping and burbling up
as if silently singing into the clear glass knob
and waiting to be poured, black with
a dollop of whole milk--nothing fancy
or pressed or flavored, only itself
like a staple of love.  


From Marrow of Summer (Kelsay Books, 2021).
Used here with permission.