milk glass

fire still burns in me

turning the hard skeletal sections

to bone ash for make of milk glass

sat on shelf in Grandmother’s cabinet

opaque and fragile

untouched unless need arise

or occasion calls

and that ain’t often

collect the dust off everyone’s fears

digested in the summer air

sticky and sweet

I get the dirt

while you get the wet condensation

to quash my fire

from your tall crystal sweet tea glass

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