Mourning
Sara Milić
It used to go like this: coffee boiled to the pot’s edge
then back down again in a sly and delicate game
of to burn or not to burn. She would tease us
with a slow umber overflow, an aromatic thrill;
she knew something this good didn’t come so quick.
Now, the ancient džezva is revealed from the back
of the cupboard on rare occasion, momentarily
warmed by the glow of a humble kitchen light --
scarcely touched except when casually side-swiped.
I wonder if she remembers those long, weary nights
on the burner, playing host for all our closest friends,
back when a coffee took longer than a single button press
on a loud, stainless steel machine, or maybe how much
time we spent telling stories over her, Mama and me.
The De’Longhi whirs, but I only dream of her quiet
rolling boil; her black gold Sunday morning gifts
and my dry roots watered by every ounce of it.
then back down again in a sly and delicate game
of to burn or not to burn. She would tease us
with a slow umber overflow, an aromatic thrill;
she knew something this good didn’t come so quick.
Now, the ancient džezva is revealed from the back
of the cupboard on rare occasion, momentarily
warmed by the glow of a humble kitchen light --
scarcely touched except when casually side-swiped.
I wonder if she remembers those long, weary nights
on the burner, playing host for all our closest friends,
back when a coffee took longer than a single button press
on a loud, stainless steel machine, or maybe how much
time we spent telling stories over her, Mama and me.
The De’Longhi whirs, but I only dream of her quiet
rolling boil; her black gold Sunday morning gifts
and my dry roots watered by every ounce of it.
Sara Milić is a Bosnian-American international student at Lancaster University where she is finishing her MA in Creative Writing. Sara’s experiences as a former war refugee and immigrant greatly influence her work in prose and poetry, through which she aims to shed light on the marginalized Balkan diaspora.
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