A Glass of Milk
The shivering concoction
withdraws from its own coldness
rubbing against the residue left
abandoned to the furthest corners of my mouth.
Dried and flaking
giving up to fall into a pool of its own eternity.
Mother shares the tainting.
Till the rotten soap is stuck under my fingernails.
breaching the sheltered skin
incapable of being cleaned under streams of denial
but still potent
enough to scrape the rubble off my mother’s wounded body.
Still, it leaves behind its markings and
blueprints for another destroyed city.
Another war is waged
father’s pride clings to his fists in desperation
the familiar strikes of slurred thunder
rocking us backward
Faster and harder
till even the dog no longer shows sympathy.
She is always wringing the bruises from her body
Consuming them with her bowed head
It is a miracle; Her rebellion
A fickle dream
Grow too tall to see him
A chin always upturned
find a permanent haven in the ceilings
Grow taller than him
so you never have to see him again.
But there is no retribution,
only a hefty weariness
mounting pressure to forget
A near-empty glass collecting more dust.
A few drops left untouched
Finally a hushed order comes through
So there is nothing left.
7 thoughts on "A Glass of Milk"
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Excellent lines “She is always wringing the bruises from her body
Consuming them with her bowed head”
Your poem pulled me in to reread several times. Powerful, emotional! well done!!!
Clair, your first post here is filled with angst, great words, and multilevel meanings. I, too, read this and the third time I realized how effective the title and the last line are…
Profound and “tea”ming with angst
I am now thirsty