"Morning Routine I" by Eva Dominelli
Two poems by Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad
Ode to My Coffee Maker for Understanding My Depression
The first day I filled the reservoir,
spooned the fragrant gravel into the brew basket,
the white filter dipped and I pressed on,
returned to my room, to the dull wait
of a conscious coma until the furious roar
of steam erupted from the machine,
I hadn’t clicked the decanter into place,
and when I did, a coffee waterfall
gushed into the glass—it knew not to drip;
and the second day I made sure each piece
was locked into function, three tablespoons again
scooped from the packet, the green light blinking
into a fade as I stepped away, and once more,
the growl of error clouded the air,
I forgot the water, and whatever moisture
remained from my last cup, it used
to sound a vaporous alarm;
and on the third day, I checked each part,
rehydrated the plastic basin,
left the device again and came back
to grounds sputtered, boiling water,
barely brown had filled the pot coffee-less,
a rolled-up pouch, pressed and empty of caffeine
sad beside the coffeemaker;
I should count the grains like I would blessings,
that each time the appliance didn’t explode
as a response to my mistreatment,
each time there was always the smell of smoke,
each time a warning and forgiveness
for my own malfunction, I just sat there waiting
with a fog resting above my lip,
I would not get up right away;
I couldn’t tell if it was real—the burning
spooned the fragrant gravel into the brew basket,
the white filter dipped and I pressed on,
returned to my room, to the dull wait
of a conscious coma until the furious roar
of steam erupted from the machine,
I hadn’t clicked the decanter into place,
and when I did, a coffee waterfall
gushed into the glass—it knew not to drip;
and the second day I made sure each piece
was locked into function, three tablespoons again
scooped from the packet, the green light blinking
into a fade as I stepped away, and once more,
the growl of error clouded the air,
I forgot the water, and whatever moisture
remained from my last cup, it used
to sound a vaporous alarm;
and on the third day, I checked each part,
rehydrated the plastic basin,
left the device again and came back
to grounds sputtered, boiling water,
barely brown had filled the pot coffee-less,
a rolled-up pouch, pressed and empty of caffeine
sad beside the coffeemaker;
I should count the grains like I would blessings,
that each time the appliance didn’t explode
as a response to my mistreatment,
each time there was always the smell of smoke,
each time a warning and forgiveness
for my own malfunction, I just sat there waiting
with a fog resting above my lip,
I would not get up right away;
I couldn’t tell if it was real—the burning
Depression is an American Mink
After “The Fur Coat” – I Love Lucy: Season 1, Episode 10
Waterproof and a carnivore, cryptic in color,
but mostly for its sure preparedness against predator,
its fearlessness against anything larger, and also,
how its conquer leaves debris that’s sewn into a fur coat,
which Lucy sports like it was her own hunt;
she assumes it’s hers, this intermission of tragedy,
a proud slaughter she wears like a grisly ribbon,
sleeps in the patched rind of triumph, smiling
she wraps an apron around it when she washes dishes,
eats breakfast as the small murder rubs against her skin,
how good its slippery death feels to her nakedness,
like oil gliding in un-moisturized crevices, and knowing
despair’s pardon is always brief, she refuses to remove it;
this is a slay not to be buried but flaunted, a butchery
fashioned for a mannequin, this glorious stepping
out of one’s aching body and finally into the pelt of another,
a victory—we all know this—that dulls every other catastrophe,
like when the burglar points a gun at Lucy, she tells him to wait,
lifts the coat first and then gives him the okay; see
how passive we become to other crises, how we ridicule them,
that bullet in the barrel, nothing more than a blossom about to bloom
Waterproof and a carnivore, cryptic in color,
but mostly for its sure preparedness against predator,
its fearlessness against anything larger, and also,
how its conquer leaves debris that’s sewn into a fur coat,
which Lucy sports like it was her own hunt;
she assumes it’s hers, this intermission of tragedy,
a proud slaughter she wears like a grisly ribbon,
sleeps in the patched rind of triumph, smiling
she wraps an apron around it when she washes dishes,
eats breakfast as the small murder rubs against her skin,
how good its slippery death feels to her nakedness,
like oil gliding in un-moisturized crevices, and knowing
despair’s pardon is always brief, she refuses to remove it;
this is a slay not to be buried but flaunted, a butchery
fashioned for a mannequin, this glorious stepping
out of one’s aching body and finally into the pelt of another,
a victory—we all know this—that dulls every other catastrophe,
like when the burglar points a gun at Lucy, she tells him to wait,
lifts the coat first and then gives him the okay; see
how passive we become to other crises, how we ridicule them,
that bullet in the barrel, nothing more than a blossom about to bloom
Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad’s poetry has appeared in the Asian American Writers’ Workshop, The Missing Slate, Painted Bride Quarterly, and is forthcoming in Silk Road Review. She is the poetry editor for Noble / Gas Qtrly, and a Best of the Net, Pushchart Prize, and Best New Poets nominee. She currently lives in New York where she practices matrimonial law.
Eva Dominelli is a Vancouver artist and freelance Illustrator with a BFA in Illustration from Emily Carr University of Art and Design. Her mysterious gouache and ink illustrations playfully investigate the relationship between the private and the public experience of the everyday. She is currently working on her upcoming artist’s book Between Being & Nothingness.
You can view more of her work at evadominelli.com, on facebook @evadominelliillustration or on instagram @eva.avenue.
You can view more of her work at evadominelli.com, on facebook @evadominelliillustration or on instagram @eva.avenue.
