Azula

Roasting espresso beans,

black as liquorice, heavy

on smoke and steel barrels,

aroma canvasing the senses.

Azula came to roast with me

in those dark italian boots.

Wrapped up Italian legs,

born of Italian roots, accent

thick as caramel, her sweet

black hair, dark as soot.

She commanded me, on hasty

corners to be her passion, to

slide her onto the counter, to

work her wild, to roast prefect

espresso, and to embrace myself.

Days were heavy then, anchored

in memories and addictions. A

dredge along the sea floor,

I have seen those days before.

I roasted the espresso and

Azula broke my attentions,

my infatuations of the past,

this mason of healing comfort

came for me while I was busy

roasting the perfect espresso bean.