Ink
by Katherine Cochrane
The berries in the desert were bitter
when the recluse, Sheikh Omar,
picked them from the bunn,
so he roasted them to soften the taste.
The beans were too hard and too dry
so he boiled them and drank
the aromatic broth, black like ink.
My own beans are dry and stale when
I grind them. My first pour spills
over the brim of the cup, and an inky
brown ring stains the card sent
by my sister. Her signature dissolves
so that when I dab at the stain with
a paper towel, the name lifts
cleanly and completely.
My sister and I write every few weeks
despite the calls and texts thumbed
in a moment’s haste. Did the Sheikh
write to his kin in nutty brown letters?
How else would he transcribe the bitter
flavor, the blessed vigor? I imagine him
writing, Brother! Smell my words, taste
from miles away the broth that sharpened
my thoughts in the sun. Come close
to the page and smell what I have, feel
what I’ve felt. My sister folds paper animals
into her cards. They line my windowsill,
little elephants and cranes folded from post-it
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