It won't happen in your lifetime;
I won't sip from the muddy demitasse
the bitter dregs left for your mother to read
my fortune revealed in the legs
and patterns of powder still in the cup --
I can't go that far.

I hear the water in Famagusta is so blue
it is painful to look at for too long.

We took pictures of the guard tower in '87
on the green line in Nicosia--
resolution for replacing Greek families
with Turkish ones.

You explained that the coffee was Turkish,
a relic from the Ottomans,
a reminder that the Island of Aphrodite
had occupiers before, has changed

hands so many times it barely knows
itself. You were a hero to me, enduring
solitary during your military service
for thanking your commanding officer
for noticing you lacked the military mentality.

We turned the car around at the green line
after a night with friends from Queens,
our 8-month-old daughter asleep--
my eyes wide; my lips and arms taut
at the sight of guns; UN peacekeepers
did not seem so peaceful.
But what did I know?

After 25 years, you still ask if I want
Greek coffee--knowing I'll refuse
the bitter sweetness, the thickened
dust that sinks to the bottom

of every cup standing next to a tavli
board in Kyrenia or Limassol,
where the coffee is Turkish
and has been for so long.