Rituals

Before I start my poem

I need a potent cup of coffee—

colossal extra-grande.

But there’s nothing

poetic in that. Any editor

worth their cream will strike

this set-up strophe as chaff.

I could picture my

ceramic cup

coming together—the clay

becoming rebellious

with every spin—refusing to take

the humungous form

its master has intended,

complaining the space

within the handle

is much too much too big—

unless Kong

is chugging a medium

roast to down his hundred

bananas. Ditto for its lip.

There’s a reason

that the clay is used

in scripture's metaphor:

yielding to its maker,

giving up its form

to humbly obey

its creator/god,

knowing shape exists

to serve

the hands of shaper.

And please don’t get me

started with envisioning

every bean—

hand-picked by Juan

Valdez. I saw him

in commercials

during the years I was

a child, with a sombrero

and a poncho

and a mule, having no idea

that someday I’d

be addicted, unable

to scrawl a word

unless their presence, by

my side;

that this patron

saint of the groggy

was never bona

fide, just an actor

akin to Santa

in a suburban shopping

mall, and this is hardly

the place to say

I could have never

come up with this—

were it not for

the morning joe

you bring me daily,

so tenderly

to my desk, a kiss

upon my forehead,

the steam

ascending on through

the open window,

that the sky

will be the limit

for us both.

Andreas Gripp

January 11, 2025

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