Tatiana Figueroa Ramirez
Café con Leche
It is 9am. Zori shouts
from her marquesina
“Ven a tomar un cafecito.”
I cross the black river named
Calle Rubí to enter
the cement home de la familia Ortíz.
Zori’s words stumble
into one another, fast like
Hummingbird wings. She spills
Sabana Grande’s secrets over
her clear, plastic table cloth.
She says it won’t stain
“¿Lo quieres con leche?”
A silver speckled saucepan sits
on a celestial flame
as pearlescent milk bubbles
over itself. The white elixir mixes
with broken down coffee beans, dark
as the back of a cave, to create
a café con leche baby
in my floral mug. Steam swirls
into the cool morning air. It threatens
to bite my tongue. Zori grabs
my coffee & an empty cup, while talking
about her granddaughter in Boston
& how Papín got what he deserved.
The air & liquid follow each other, dancing
a creamy smooth waltz from quinceañeros.
Zori tips one cup over the other,
a stream of velvet flowing up & down.
She hands the coffee back, explaining
why the new pizza place is still closed
& how the foreign nuns took
control of el pozo de La Virgen.
The hot fog disappears
& between my lips sips become gulps.
Imagine bathing in drenched dirt.
Dissolved grounds warming
throat, chest, ribs, & womb.
El aroma de café hugs
cotton threads & coconut oiled curls.
Zori’s stories don’t pause.
El Vocero acted out live.
Suelta la Sopa without commercials.
Her hummingbird words still flying
through la cocina y el comedor.
The sun keeps moving, painting
a tropical silhouette black.
It’s 9pm. Zori shouts
“Ven a tomar un cafecito.”
