I place three cups
in the small
microwave,
enough for the ma-te
cup and the thermos.
Six minutes should
do it.
You’re not
supposed to
boil it—82 Celsius
is optimum.
As I clean
yesterday’s
ma-te out of the
cup,
I think about today,
Election Day
in the U.S.
I rinse out the
ma-te cup,
rinse out the
slender
bombilla, a kind of
silver straw.
Election Day.
The sound of the
bell
on the microwave
brings me back
to earth.
Working quickly,
I put ma-te in
the cup,
educated
fingers knowing just
how much
of the lovely and
aromatic green
powder
to put into the cup.
I fill the cup with
water and put the
rest
into the thermos.
Walking out onto the
deck,
ma-te in hand,
I see three or
four fishing boats
on the water.
I haven’t seen
that many
since California.
Do they still catch
salmon
off the Pacifica
coast? I don’t
know.
Election Day.
The Uruguayan
workers
are at work on
our roof.
A cutting disk sings
in the wind.
Election Day.
They will rebuild
the “caballete,”
the same word that
is used
for the easel that
Sandy
brought from
California,
and we will soon
sell
if the election
results
are favorable.
I love my morning
ma-te,
but I’d gladly
give it up
to have my country
back.
