Starbucks Impostor
For years I’d been Susan.
My real name unpronounceable
to them, a dry “r” they wet and sloth.
Saliva spilling into my coffee.
Then the wait was so long at this one store
that I used the app to pre-order.
There was a cup waiting for me,
small non-fat cappuccino,
with my real name printed.
I reached but recoiled.
I looked around at the other customers,
wondering who else was under cover,
who laid bare. I grabbed the cup and
tossed it, discreetly.
Then shuffled to the long line,
gaze on the ground,
to order a small nonfat cappuccino
for Susan.
*
Communion
He would place it on my tongue
with reverence; he was a holy man,
no doubt. No eye contact—he
knew all my sins—
bound on earth.
I would do a one-eighty,
return to my seat, kneel
in the hard chestnut.
Downcast gaze, the tip of my tongue
slowly peeling the wet wafer
from the roof of my mouth.
This is God, stuck to
the roof of my mouth—
nothing else was coming loose.
*
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, The Lake, among others. dolodiaz.com