One Cup of Buddhism Please

in the morning I make coffee

always the same way

in a Moka pot on the stove.

I unscrew the three parts

of the Moka pot and wash them.

I fill the bottom part with water

just up to the tiny gold hole

that is like the emergency hole

in the bathtub which keeps the water

from spilling over the brim

and flooding the entire apartment.

I insert the middle piece,

a metal backwards funnel,

take a bag of either Ethiopian

or Peruvian ground coffee

from the cupboard, open it

and scoop enough coffee

into the bowl to fill it.

I screw the top piece on,

turn the burner on, to seven,

or eight if I’m in a rush. then

I sit in the fucking chair in the corner

by the open window where just a sliver

of sunlight reaches into my flat

between eight and ten in the summers

and between six and eight in winter

and I do worlde, listening

for the bubbling sound of water

rising up the spout of the pot,

an indication it’s ready.

it usually takes about five minutes.

when it’s ready I go over and grab

from the dish rack the eggshell white

ceramic mug with a ripe avocado brim,

a yellow ball handle, and the word hülye

painted underneath it so the person

across from whom you are sitting

knows just what you think as you tip

the mug up and take a sip.

I take the Moka pot and the mug

to the sink and I pour with my right hand

to my left hand but if I tip it too much

then coffee leaks down the side

of the silver Moka pot into the sink

and if I pour it too slowly, well,

then I have to wait like a peasant

for that many more seconds to drink

black gold and so there is this medium

tipping point where a steady stream

pours from the spout into the mug

and the universe feels like it’s in tune.