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.