Caution: Her Words Are Scorching

My mother was instant coffee

made without the filter,

erupting from the glass pot,

splashing on the linoleum in front of me.

Grinds settled between my teeth,

hard to dislodge.

I stared

from the edge of the kitchen,

watching

the mess,

dirt brown liquid

pooling

beneath my feet.

I should’ve grabbed the mop,

now it stains,

soaked

into the foundation

of my memory.