Milliliters

The apartment is humming with traffic.

I can feel the trucks in my teeth.

I bought the bottle at the corner store

because my chest feels like wet wool.

When I cracked the seal, it hit me—

that thick, sugar-choked cherry smell.

Suddenly I’m six years old again,

propped up on the corduroy couch

waiting for the spoon to reach my mouth.

The medicine is heavy and red.

It coats the throat with a chemical heat.

I left the little plastic cup

face-down on a paper towel.

It’s leaving a sticky pink ring,

slowly drying into the weave.