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I dip my pan dulce into the coffee just like my mother.
Breadcrumbs lazily floating,
then seeping
into the bottom of the cup, its death pile among escaped coffee grinds
that make me gag
when they press against my teeth
begging to be let in.
Coffee tastes best
when made from dancing, ashy hands.
Silent among the chaos
of cackling laughter
with occasional shouts of “cabrón"
and other crude remarks I fail to follow.
Religion exists
in the communal ritual
of passed around grecas
and warm mismatched mugs
pressed into ashy hands.