Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

Milk in Glass Bottles

Upright, not incurving bottles, bottles with cream on the crimped silver cap: what my mother foundin the milkbox, built by my dad. What my mother, then, when someone came, was so good at was greeting the stranger; the rhythmic deliverer who came, she prepared for. It was settled wealth and rhythm: to this day a clean floor with sunlight on it moves me, seals me up in some lifted shining cup and I pour through ample glasses with facets and sunbeams and Peter Rabbit and Flopsy: the lore. The ware? What Wedgewood wanted so badly to spread to the middle classes. And did. No one comes anymore. Everyone is here, with us already, in rerun with Dolby on chromium tape. Here on Columbian crystals for vividness: chocolate, cocoa, cola, cocaine; and silver, black grains of it swirled by the dream czar, sealed in his chamber, his darkroom under redlight: here on our screen, flickering phantoms reliving as us. The bottles, the window grid, imposed—not a tax on the glass, anymo

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