Drip

By Mackenzie Moore

The rituals I keep

in quiet California

are small,

carry on packable:

grinding

measuring

boiling

When I don’t

dictate the day

by virtue of grams

I wobble

off into the morning

my continuity thrown

Off

I think of those

railroad kitchens

my same bare feet

married to cold tile

still grinding

measuring

boiling

I think of

Ira

of Mike

of Jia

building their word churches

back in New York

I was watered down

So I left

to spend long nights

roasting out the acrid bite

One day: I hope

silky stories that

go down smooth.

©2020 by Variant Literature Inc.