When we were little
the most bitter taste we knew
was the black coffee
mommy and daddy drank
at the kitchen table. Every morning

the steam fogged up daddy’s
glasses, so we could not see
the red in his eyes before
the caffeine brought him back
to life. Every morning

the colour stained mommy’s
teeth. Distracting us
from the strain in her face
when she stretched her mouth
to smile. Every morning

we peered over our placemats
and wondered
when we could be
like mommy and daddy
Knowing. Responsible.
Slouched
over their coffee cup. Many mornings
.
.
.
we plucked white hairs and flower petals bare
stocked up eye drops, replenished tears
massaged out cheekbones, practiced grins
we laid out torn
envelopes like the lilies
over mom and dad
at the kitchen table

steaming over our eyes
staining our teeth
we savoured the sweetness
of black coffee
every morning