Yasmin Mariam Kloth

Ritual

My grandmother reads
coffee grounds with two hands
she holds blue and red flowers
of the Turkish coffee cup. First she
presses the saucer against
the ceramic lip and the sound
of hard surfaces rings
through the room. She
flips the two together
for a moment they are dancing
to her hum. My grandmother hums
a low murmur like a chant
to what’s left of the liquid
hums to a pool of silk.
The grounds hold tight
to the walls of the cup
and the shapes tell stories
I will never understand.

I am thirteen and old enough
now to hear my grandmother
read my mother’s cup.
It takes time. They drink
the coffee first with their backs
in chairs my grandmother
embroidered, gifts she gave
when my parents married
and they talk about their lives
this time that has passed.
They talk about place and
the space that fills the distance
to there.
My grandmother holds
my mother’s cup in her hands.
She goes to speak.
We wait in the silence
of her pause

and her drifting gaze.