Every Mourning

Every morning we drive to the same coffee shop,
On the same road, up that same hill--
Castaneda would be disappointed.
There's a girl that walks up that hill,
Presumably to class.
Every morning we see the girl with plum red hair,
And every morning I try not to look at her.

The sound of the milk being steamed,
While the coffee grinder grinds the espresso beans
(Just right, like the texture of sugar),
I am violently reminded of what I have not become,
And what has become of us because.
It was not shooting-magic; it is not a curse.
There will be no witch doctor stalking me, I think;
Yet the sounds of every morning are like echoing incantations.

Every morning amounts to this,
Since she told me her awful secret.