My coffee was cold.
Even Mondays in May made what
the Scientists,
the Politicians,
the Polar Bears feared most
appear paradoxical.
To the Brazilian girl, it's crimson fruit,
it's the precarious nature of
Spring's rain.

Her honeysuckle,
laden with Mother's Milk
never smelled more like
home.

But to me,
it was a blissful pain,
it was a snuggled sip between
salvation and
the last word she wished she hadn't said. 

She summoned sunshine,
displacing the haunted memories of a past
which refuse to recede;
she poured hot coffee.