Curdle

The clock on the stove is a green blink

in a room that’s too wide for just one.

I used the last of the flakes,

shaking the box until the dust settled

like a fine silt at the bottom of the bowl.

Then the milk hit the ceramic,

thick and wrong, smelling of a basement.

It sat there in white clumps

like matted wool on a sick sheep,

ruining the only thing I had ready.

I didn't even have a clean spoon.

I just stood there with the carton,

watching the cereal go soft and grey,

knowing I’d have to wash the sink

before I could even start to be hungry.