Morning coffee

First of her coffee back home
as per the ritual she prescribed
– half a world away she caresses –

sudden taste of her sweet, velvety lips
her skin soft and supple as the beans
her smooth hips in the round savour

for standing there she might have been
as if in remanence before my eyes
– a lambent vela in the moonless dark –

as if the black markings on her face
had always been and never quite faded
– like the volutes of vapour above the cup –

the aromas, once on my hands,
seep like a mirage into my soul
– in bygone days called witchcraft –

for her coffee this morning is enchanting
– as if gently pushing the bottom of my cup
and smiling she says “Bebe, corazón, bebe.”