Tonight's Poet Corner: The Longevity of Spoiled Milk

The Longevity of Spoiled Milk
by Belinda Roddie

It's not just that it curdles in your throat
and becomes its own mutated aberration
once it slithers into your stomach. Somehow,
the disgusting sour tang has a life span that
transcends even your darkest traumas. Your
digestive tract will never be the same again.

I drank the rotten cow innards the day you
moved out because I wanted to feel something
hurt me inside in the most asinine of ways. As if
your words weren't enough. As if the lingering
print of your palm wasn't enough. But
of course, if you hadn't packed your bags
and flipped me off on the way out the door,
I would have done it instead of you.

The empty carton fits perfectly between
the calluses of my fingers. When I dumped
that yellowing white evil that had once
graced my cereal bowl in a better life, I saw
myself purging a malevolent spirit in dairy
form. The flavor sticks with me, of course:
It's like glue on my tongue, holding fast

to each of my flailing, resisting taste buds,
but somehow, it tears my mind away from
the images of your leering sneer, your teeth
the same goddamn color as the stuff I just
fed to the unwilling sink.