Foretaste

Why does the wheat in the field bend 
as soon as the crickets hush, long

before the wind's dark, curving scythe 
reaches out across the countryside? 

Why does the smell of heat escaping 
from the earth taste like the bowl

of a pewter spoon? At the coffee 
shop, Sarah is the one who likes 

to bring dream flavors to life: 
blackberry with an undercurrent 

of tarragon and almond, ginger 
in a haze of orange so coffee's 

bitter heart is complex after all, 
full of old drama besides no sugar 

anymore, no cream. Once, you parted 
my lips; I tasted licorice and copper. 

Once I shunned the heat of peppers until 
I could say their names— Tellicherry 

and Malabar; Kampot, Muntok, and 
the Szechuan that numbs the tongue. 

How could we call to the elusive 
that we don't even know we crave?