The kitchen

the cabinets were an acid green

for as long as I can

remember.

My father made

coffee in an old

percolator, telling me

I was too young

to drink it,

as if it were magic -

it wasn’t. The pungent

smell persisted into

the stale dusk.

My mother listened

to the radio.

My father drummed

his fingers on

the table, coffee going

cold in his cup.

Whole nights

went by when

I forgot to breathe.