My tongue like bark,
I lick the froth from
my steamed soy milk
like the taste of Mom’s pinecone crafts.
Unlike the sap of my early days
of 2% that Mom had filled for my
jelly jar glass each dinner
in the dining room with crystals.
Like cardboard, soy steam pours
over my tongue’s tip—
scrapes the buds, like the way
Dad scraped buds in the backyard,
the lawnmower chasing us
in diagonals and cupcakes.
My mouth a dry scone,
I sip more, sipping mean,
until my tongue chars like
the night I reached for the switch
and realized Dad no longer
tucked me in.
The grand bland lather of Silk
rushes over my tongue of shingles
until the foam slopes at the bottom
like shampoo slopping below my ear.
My tongue of pinecones, bitter and
arching for froth,
for the kitchen sink after midnight,
for a venom of milk,
for the sap of my early days.