© Sauce*Box, Fall 1996.
All rights revert to author.
What I Need
by Carol Bachofner
Before I see you again, coffee!
Strong espresso crowned by light
frothy coif must precede the familiar
roll of your voice, that husky dark
music I grew to love. The window
of my car should be fogged slightly
to prevent you noticing the slightest
shudder of my hand holding the coffee
or gripping the steering wheel. The window
must not betray even a glint of the light
welled up behind my heart, or the dark
blush rising up to match an old familiar
pulse between us. Is it still so familiar
that I may gasp at your touch, the slightest
touch of your hand on me in the darkness?
I watch and wait and sip. I remember coffee
mornings, clinging together again before light
of day came with birdsong outside your window.
No birds sing this night beyond this window
as I listen for the crunching gravel beneath familiar
footsteps. When I see you again will the same light
shine in your face as long ago or will there be slightly
altered love, aged by time like finely milled coffee
beans? Should I brood over our loss and expect dark
news written there along lines that surely will
darken
your sweet face? I should quickly roll up the window
and drive on and away before you come. I need coffee,
but less than I need to see you again. I want the familiar
feel of your passion to strengthen me from where a slight
shiver becomes a torrent and icy fear becomes heat and light.
I need to wake with you one more at the coming
of daylight.
It will not matter that your hair has gone grey, that dark
wave so alive it once trembled and sighed at the slightest
shock of my fingertips. I want one more morning window,
shining with birdsong and sunshine and the familiar
scent of our nighttime mixed so perfectly with fresh coffee.
I need coffee and daylight with you and the
familiar
dark scent of love. I will leave the window slightly open and wait.
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