I can feel the icy glass
against my pulse even now.
I remember the cold bottle,
one small hand grasping the neck,
the other clutching the flat bottom.
Sometimes the milk had a bubble
rising up the side
when I carried it
from the front door
into the kitchen.
I tried to peel the cap back quickly,
pour only the cream that sat at the top.
I asked my grandmother
to help me decant
the velvety sweetness in a thick drizzle
over the raspberries,
that I had earlier sugared
and piled into a pyramid
in the cereal bowl.
I wanted to eat the berries and cream
with my little engraved spoon,
touch my tongue to the curved edge,
sure that I could taste the silver,
before she shook the bottle,
mixed the suspension,
and added corn flakes to the bowl
for my proper breakfast.
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