Cold Cream...

COLD CREAM

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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