FATHER FLEW IN A YELLOW COMET, MOTHER RODE A GREAT MAROON CONTUSION

My portrait of the abused child
always features him or her chained to a radiator
drinking spoiled milk from a baby bottle
It took half a century for me to realize the inaccuracy

We all still laugh when I recount the story
of how I sat up half the night at the dinner table
in front of a glass of milk
I couldn't imagine drinking
for the nausea it conjured
I don't recall why I was reprieved

Milk always tasted rancid to me
The land of milk & honey?
Who the fuck would want to go to such a place?
I'd rather drink sand
No wonder I became a stumbling drunk

No gestures or movements were smooth or easy
no gossamer, no silk
(I'm putting ilk in here if it kills me)

Some of us got more well than others
but I wouldn't measure our relative successes
in stronger bones and teeth