by Mercedes A. Villamán

Woke up in a bad mood
too much gray out the window
the weak sunlight
won't make me squint yawn and stretch out
the heart went on sleeping
like a bored cat.
Not enough birds singing on the trees
not enough trees.

The cup was too hot for my lips
and the coffee was flat
flat
not enough taste to bring out memories
and wake up the soul
not enough stories to have a taste
to engage my mind
and I could tell
this coffee was that new breed
a bean made to grow in all weathers
and none
planted alone
row
after
row

of coffee trees -- only
no haguas trees
no avocados
no other trees to keep them company
sheltered them from winds, rains
and too much sun.

I woke up missing the breeze coming
from the mango trees in the back
behind the guavas, the limes and acerolas.
I could taste no songs
or the giggling of coffee-picking compadrès
telling each other last night's bedtime story.

A silent coffee
and I could tell
the hands that picked it
were obedient hands
pulling off every bean the foreman said
good ones and bad ones
and after that
every tomatè and olive and apple
they were not hands
learned on tradition
strange hands they were.

Flat coffee
flat metal taste
the beans never met the glades
for their last sun bath
never had time to outgrow the shell
some kind of blade raping
it off without shame
no feet smashing
the skin of the bean
dancing and singing feet
were not going down
tickling my throat

I woke up searching for the crackling moaning of the house
when the morning sun starts licking the wood.
Whooshing-squirting-splattering
my mother's hose watering
the red hibiscus on the fence.
And mi abuela calling out,
"the café con lechè is getting cold,
wake up muchachos."
This coffee was packed in a plastic bag
waiting
not knowing for what.
its smell didn't fill my kitchen
did not wind up the stair
didn't scratch at the windows
nor invite the neighbors.

This gray morning

and the coffee it was flat.