Brought from the horn.
Brought to me by my mother almost in her milk.
The sight smell ritual of the pot
with a brown moss rising in the rhythm of the stove’s breath
sometime the sweet cardamon too.

The ritual of comfort, intimacy, taste, that of the mother.
The ritual that has traveled with me through times
and the one that has comforted me where others failed.

Where to begin?
The thought- the wanting- the energy rush to get the pot
or find a vendor.
The jar cold from the fridge
anticipation of a miracle of what happens once opened.

When I do I close my eyes inhale exhale inhale again.
Tantric breaths, do they take me to the place, or is that the magic of the black bean?

Strong it must be and smooth
perhaps because of the people who have first known it.
Hot it must be
because mother presses against a window looking out to the drizzle and the snow.


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