ever the orange laced with garlic

the pungent and the floral 

in tandem 

in opposition, the burnt milk

forgotten on the stove

harkens back to a cup of milk

left in my childhood bedroom for weeks

when it spilled 

i wiped up the curdled clumps with a sweatshirt

and, for fear,

closed it in my unicorn trunk

hoping it could somehow disappear

the key is in the resolution

--did i reveal the sweatshirt, 

dragging it down the stairs in two fingers,

hoping for forgiveness?

was it discovered from the growing smell

and i hunted down for answers?

was there a tender hug

conveying a gentle understanding

on how hard it is to remember 

anything in this world?--

my memory only holds 

the isolating shame

having done wrong, 

and in so, being wrong.

and at this moment

my child spills his milk

while watching tv in the living room

and leaves it to drip off the side table

my voice wells just slightly 

for a moment at his inaction

it being hard to remember

how unsettling 

those shifts in tone can feel

just the very unsturdiness 

of moving through the world

only longing to be swathed

in a sweet and unconditional love