Gabriela Bittencourt
Ode to o cafezinho da tarde
Not to be mistaken
with your morning brew
or $7 cup from Starbucks,
$7 — good grief! Friends,
every afternoon,
between 3 and 5 o’clock,
I pour hot water into
a stained cloth filter over
fine powder from which
rises an aroma of that place
my heart’s frenzy comes from.
Indeed, there is no greater delight
than slipping into the sweet song of slurry
which raises my droopy eyelids,
animates my waning breath,
and suddenly I’m given a second life,
blooming with acacias within me,
I begin to see things
like my mother at the table
sipping her cafezinho, indulging in cream crackers,
enveloped in a sanctified silence, which if we’re
lucky we get once, maybe twice, a year.
I join her and together we silence,
my hand in hers, her thumb caressing
the inside of my palm. O, if only
in real life we were this tender.