the capability of filling a glass

when there was no more food 
left in the house
there was always a box of powdered milk 
perched in the corner of the shelf.

the box had drawings of white flowers 
and, sometimes, i'd pull a chair up
to the counter so that i would
be tall enough to reach it.

one hand on the counter, 
one hand extending, i'd plucked
the box from it's nesting place.
just to hold it there alone.
barefoot. cold red speckled floor kitchen.

shaking the box i considered
the mechanics of powdered milk,
if, maybe, when i'd pour the stuff
in a glass of water it could do more
than just turn to murky pale milk.

i thought of the flowers on the package
and imagined one of the tall water glasses
filling up with flowers, white flowers
dunked in water, the flowers dissolving
into milk in my mouth.

also maybe, another kind of magic,
the capability of filling a glass
with whatever kind
of food you wanted.
i would stir with a big spoon 
and i'd whisper to the opaque water
Oreos or Milano cookies 
or even just spaghetti
and the powdered milk would choose 
for me. the powdered milk 
would be motherly like that.

standing there,
i'd shake the box,
listening to the shifting 
of dried milk, which sounded 
so much like sand. a beach, maybe,
could be built where each time 
a wave crash the powdered shore would
make more food; wild snacks
like raspberries and cantaloupe.

after shaking it,
i'd put the box back,
stare at it few seconds, inspecting
those white flowers.

once i tasted a handful 
of the powdered milk.
it was bitter and chalky in my mouth.
i washed it down with water
which just made it gunky in my throat.