The sour stench which spills from the carton 

wages war upon the nostrils 

as its contents pour 

into a clear and empty glass. 

Pallid. Putrid. No good. Bad. 

The kind of smell which 

haunts your fridge for weeks on end. 

This was once the stuff of Gods— 

just a splash could create the whole universe: dot the sky with all its stars  

It could nurture the infant in a single sip,  

or velvetize your cracking skin. 

It could cleanse the soul of all its imperfections, 

make the coffee in your cup somewhat bearable to drink 

but no more. Each strand, once soft as silk, turned to 

waxy waves of  

off-white rot, where the fat separates from water just as flesh

falls from bone 

then floats up to the top, seafoamed, in great rubber chunks.  

What a pity. What a shame. 

A moment of silence for all the things it could have been, 

or could have done, 

never to calcify. 

Dump the liquid down the drain, 

what’s the use in it now? 

Drown it with water 

then cast away its casket with the waste

where it belongs.