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Milk for Two

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My forearms always stick to the plastic, flowered tablecloth
as I sit, waiting for the poison.

At last, it arrives,
a white liquid,
almost opaque, but too watery in consistency,
carried in on a silver platter,
which nearly fools me into thinking it’s a treat.

Powdered milk is not a treat.

My aunt sits by,
under strict orders from my mother
to watch as I force the concoction
down my throat.
The first sip tastes like bile, and
I can almost feel the processed granules
on my tongue.
I grimace.
How vile.

The phone rings.
My eyes follow my aunt as she leaves the room.
I slowly rise and creep
over to the potted plant in the corner.

Milk for two.





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Pompey said...
Aug. 5, 2008 at 11:41 am
I love this poem. Though the subject is mundane, in its simplicity, the genuine emotions of the speaker come through perfectly.
 
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