Grace Gibney

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Plastic (For Ryan)

Milk has always been
my drink of choice.

When I was little
my brother and I would have contests
at the kitchen table to see who could down
their glass the fastest,

and me, always being
the superior sibling, would rise
to the occasion.

I think about all of the glasses
of cow cream I've drunk over
the years and of all the empty
milk jugs that became a leaning tower
out in our blue recycling bin and I like to pretend that they
aren't ending up in some dump we like to label
a landfill out in the
boonies that is Idaho

because part of me is tied
to the contents of those jugs that
I have been consuming
for years now—

a weird thought.

Mom always said while dumping
spoonfuls of flowery sorts of vegetables,
still steaming, on my plate,

'you are what
you eat, "

but the thing is
I don't want to be broccoli
because green is like everything else
in nature and I happen to like my unnaturally
creamy pale skin tone.

I like to think that my milk jugs
are in some recycling facility someplace
with clean air and clear water
where they are being meshed and melted
and molded into quaint little plastic benches
for old people to read books on
or for joggers to catch their breath
or for homeless persons to have a place to sleep
for one night or even for aspiring writers
like me who once found benches a subtle place
to see things how you wanted other people
to see them.

I've learned that some things
can't be renewed, but doesn't mean
authenticity can't happen on the
first try—

sometimes one glass
is more than
enough.

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