Sourfire

The spoon shivers in my mother’s hand,

a pool of syrup thick and bitter,

like burnt rubber melting on the tongue.

I force it down with small, clenched teeth,

a choking, bitter promise

that this poison means better days.

It spills back, a splash in the glass,

a splash of tears not yet cried,

that awful, awful taste

clinging like a secret, heavy and sour,

etched sharp against my dry throat,

a medicine’s cruel, syrupy war.