Pink Zinc

The spoon was too big for a seven-year-old mouth,

filled with a syrup that smelled like a fake cherry tree.

My mother would point my face toward the south

and wait for the chemical salt to set me free.

It coated the tongue in a chalky, thick film

that even a glass of cold milk couldn't wash.

I felt like a captain at a very small helm

while the world turned to a bitter and neon-pink slush.

Now I crush up a pill in a spoonful of jam

and the ghost of that metal returns to my teeth.

I’m reminded of exactly how small I still am

and the hard, bitter medicine hiding beneath.