Breakfast Records

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Spencer Mirabal

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You measure out Forty-Four grams
Of your favorite coffee beans
Hints of jasmine, caramel, tangerine
Not quite at the point in your life to
Actually taste those flavors
Grind them way too early in the morning
In a second-hand grinder in a fourth-hand house
Pick a mug from a cabinet of mismatched memories
Your sink is chock full of other's anxieties
That are becoming yours
So you tilt the kettle at a wonky angle
To fill it with the sleepy city's water and
Boil to Two Hundred and Five degrees
Pour through the paper
Into the glass Chemex and
Swirl to rinse in the light of a window
An all-too-brief rainbow
The backyard, a jungle
The porch, a junkyard
The counter, a mess of
Wet pumpkin-patch bark from spilled grounds
Seven Hundred grams
Four Minutes
You're never certain
If today is the day that it's
All exact, but that doesn't matter

You are at the church of yourself now

Mistake-ridden meditation
Quiet chemistry

Wait for the brew to
Decide it's identity
Blink in slow motion
Feel time's curve

Put your favorite breakfast record on

Shuffle your feet
In a dance no one will ever see
But your kitchen and the cal-du-sac cat that
Sleeps on the worn beer pong table
Abandoned in the yard
When it's ready
Pour the coffee into your memory mug
Breathe it in
To the bottom of your lungs, and
Watch the fog on your glasses
Inhale and exhale away

Drink your worth in

You are at the church of yourself
You are allowed to be
At the church of yourself

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