Chaser

The bottle is sticky.

A rim of dried, toxic-pink sugar

is glued to the threads of the cap.

It smells like a chemical cherry,

the kind that burns the back of the tongue.

I remember my father’s hand,

heavy on my shoulder,

the silver spoon clinking against my teeth.

"Just swallow," he’d say,

as if the body didn't know

when it was being lied to.