On Leaving a Gallon of Milk Out for Six Hours

in my hands, the inverted bottle is a head,
newly drowned, trying to suck air faster

than the liquid can be expelled.
it jerks and shudders like it’s weeping

or vomiting into my pea green sink.
I’m pretending I don’t exist. I make

no noise while I hold back its hair
so it won’t be embarrassed later.

the drain is at capacity so for a moment
my sink is a lake of louched absinthe

or maybe elmer’s glue.
my reflection in the roiling white

is pale and gray.
there is not much to say.

my whole kitchen smells like milk
and my mouth is bitter

like maybe I was the one who was drowning
or who was forcing a head underwater.

make cheese he says.
why didn’t you just make cheese?

Rook Burdick is a poet currently attending Eastern Washington University's MFA program. They have been published in Protean, Ligeia, and The Hyacinth Review, among others. They are a cofounding editor of COOP: chickens of our poetry.