NIGHTS UNDER VOLCANIC SOIL

Roasted coffee beans are ground into tiny puffs of grain 

poured into small pouches clouded by their dust. Hot 

water drips over brew breath 

mud gives the water Guatemala's earthy flavors. Steam 

from your cup covers the glass with 

fog. You know you can suck in 

air to clear them but instead you let them 

be. It will still go. Conversations leave 

mouths around you. If you listen closely, 

there are stories of remembrance around this tiny 

diner. Bar stools line the counter that wraps itself 

into the kitchen. Milkshakes sit next to floats feeding 

their way through small tubes to plug the mouths of strangers. But are 

they strangers now that words have left lips 

to hang, be caught?