(In response to her poem about orange juice)
Reading this leaves the acrid taste
I haven’t tasted for years,
The morning juice ritual
I underwent religiously
As if believing what came
From that container
Was an elixirs of life
Her pome coming from
A not so innocent time
When kids listened
To their mothers,
Even when their
Mothers beat them,
All that long since
Reconciled if her
Facebook posts
Can be believed,
A memory she
Carries around inside her,
Pouring juice from a contain
In the fridge,
Sacramental wine
For a kid her age,
If not the blood of Christ
Then close to it,
Carrying the weight
Of the American Dream
On its back, telling her
If she eats right
Stands straight,
Does her homework,
She will get
All she deserves,
And this may scare her,
Thinking she wants no part
Of what she deserves,
Maybe having missed
Too many glasses of OJ
To qualify her
For that dream
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