arabic coffee

it was never too strong for us, make it blacker, Papa
thick in the bottom, tell again how the years will gather in small white cups
how luck lives in a spot of grounds.
leaning over the stove, he let it boil to the top, and down again.
two times.  no sugar in his pot.
and the place where men and women break off from one another
was not present in that room.
the hundred disappointments, fire swallowing olive-wood beads at the warehouse,
and the dreams tucked like pocket handkerchiefs into each day, took their places
on the table, near the half-empty dish of corn.
and none was more important than the others, and all were guests.
when he carried the tray into the room, high and balanced in his hands,
it was an offering to all of them, stay, be seated, follow the talk wherever it goes.
the coffee was the center of the flower.
like clothes on a line saying
you will live long enough to wear me, a motion of faith.
there is this, and there is more.

naomi shihab nye

(from the hungry ear:  poems of food & drink edited by kevin young)