The Devil’s Fruit

January 25, 2012

I taste on my lips, in the soft pink caverns
of my mouth, the black essence of Ethiopia.
Daily, even our sun kissed heads evaporate
down south. I see each morning bring
like a cup to my lips, the lessons, Abbaba.
between each sip, each burst of taste, my
eyes take in the beauty of the vast places
where God in His innocence began to grow

the devil’s fruit. Now like women, a commodity,
second only to oil. Then the Arabs guard their
coffee, like their oil and our women, jealously
but these dark lips escape the portentous hands
of the Devil; shrug carelessly off ,the skin, touching
even the lips of Pope Vincent 111 with God’s
Innocence. In the resonance of our fervently uttered
Prayers, even infidels are taken into our hearts.

I taste on my lips, in the soft pink caverns
of my mouth, the black essence of Ethiopia.
Ababba, even as you brew in a kitchen in America
the perfect cup of coffee, using the silk of your hair
I know that there is in you none of the bitterness
That comes from over brewing the issues.
Honest madam, you have much in common with
the German house frau, Mellita Bentz, when you

Labor on the free, foreign soil of America, I think
Of you- as I sit in Starbucks, sipping my mocha.
Like Omar, I know that my own survival shall
Come to pass as a sign for the multitude- and I raise
the cup to my lips as my eyes take in the beauty
of the vast places where God in His innocence began
to grow the Devil’s Fruit. Now I know the lock of
our lips can be bitter or sweet, I have chosen to live.

©2005 Anushka Anastasia Solomon.
Anushka Anastasia Solomon is a Colorado poet, and coffee lover, originally from Malaysia. Her other work can be viewed at www.atthewindow.us.

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