The baby’s fingers tip over the bottle of warmed milk that
the mother had just retrieved from the double boiler.
The newborn’s fingers grasp reflexively, unable
to get ahold of the feeding bottle.
Warm milk traces its path around the table,
seeping into the crack between the glass cover and the hickory wood.
The pacifier drops. the baby screams, concealing
the rumbling of the second-hand washing machine.
The dog sits by the table leg, licking off the dripping milk that is no longer warm.
Infant in one arm, the mother rushes into the kitchen for a towel.
A towel drapes the splash, sheltering the spilt milk.
Water in the kettle boils, the screeching echoes around the house,
alarming everyone but the father on the couch.
The baby cries louder. The dog barks. Milk bleeds through the towel,
trickling down the table leg, vanishing into the wool rug.
The dog wiggles its way towards the baby,
its front paws sink into the milk-soaked wool,
leaving behind a few looming paw prints on the newly thrifted rug.
Brisk wind blows, flashbacks flicker.
The afternoon picnics, with her hair bleached the color of sand, sweeping
across her face. And the scarlet lip print, bookmarking the margins of Jane Eyre
while she plays her game of solitaire.
Wind extinguishes the dollar-store candle,
toppling the empty glass bottle.
The bottle rolls off the table, timely caught
by the mother.
Out of instinct, the mother still checks the infant’s palms for any cuts.
She pours the water from the kettle into her thermal flask, adding in dried dates and goji berries,
chugging it down with the baby pink painkiller, hoping to ease the sharp cramps in her stomach.
The milk soaks up the corner of the rug, and the rest is cleaned up by the dog and his flappy tongue.
The stove is turned back on, restlessly heating up another bottle of milk.
Noticing her numbed arms, the mother puts down the baby,
The dog traces its licks to the baby’s fingertips.
While everything goes down, the father is still asleep on the couch.
And the mother knows better than to wake up a man who pretends to be asleep.
She flicks the match against the maroon match strip, reigniting the candle.
The dog sits on the wet rug, observing the burning wick and the hardened puddle of wax.
The mother stares at her baby, silently waiting for a rhythmic shriek to return.
Author: Mia Huang
