Cups

by Molly Smith

someone invented coffee because they knew mornings were meant to be slow
gritty and slow like the lingering smell of bacon fat in the kitchen
or the way the word “gravel” feels in your mouth

steam from a boiling pot catches dust and I haven’t seen the entirety of my soul
maybe I’ve peered the center, or the edges,
certainly not both.

it should be savored, like coffee dregs in the morning
like unbrushed hair and toothpaste spit
like how I read books on Saturdays and the way I pick at my skin until it bleeds

how can I be content without knowing it all?
with each green smell of morning I think I’ve come closer
but another piece blurs each time I take a sip