The Curdle

The waitress set it down on the formica

in a glass so heavy it felt like a weapon.

I haven't ordered milk since I was a kid

with a scraped knee and a glass on the nightstand.

I watched the thin condensation bead up,

reflecting the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling.

But when I took a sip, the sweetness was wrong;

it tasted like medicine, or a thick white lie.

It used to be the thing that settled the stomach,

the cold cure for a mouth full of salt.

Now it just feels like a coating on the tongue,

a heavy reminder that the body remembers

everything it has learned how to reject.